Right now, I'm laying on the couch sprawled across a sleeping Ben. The blinds are pulled up all the way. Gusts of snow whiz past the windows. The white flakes fall from a dark gray sky, dusting the deck like powdered sugar on a cake. We're covered in our NFL fleece blankets -- Ben with the burgundy and yellow of redskins, me with the navy and gray of cowboys. The way it always is. The way it will always be. It must have been the soft lull of the heaters that sent Ben into a doze. They're stationed on the floor next to me and croon quietly, whispering warmth into the A-frame treehouse that we've called home for nearly 8 months. I glance around, silently totaling up the memories.Its outward appearance isn't much. Cramped. Outdated. No dishwasher or central air. A single closet tucked into the wall where hangers overlap each other on the rod. The clothes stuffed in so tightly they begin to peak out and prevent the door from closing shut. Slanted ceilings. Narrow kitchen. Stained glass. A lavender quilt on the bed. Cozy velvety couch. French doors. Lace tablecloth. Smell of a log cabin. Gazebo in the yard. Steps slippery from ice. Ruts in the dirt driveway from car wheels. I think it's important to remember the details. The details surrounding us...they mark the setting of precious scenes. Scenes from our newlywed life: The Treehouse edition.
Scenes.Like right now. The house is cluttered. Ben hates it this way. I should get up and do something. Fold the heap of laundry. Clean the dishes from lunch.…start packing. But instead I sit, adjust the blanket to cover my toes, shift my weight which causes Ben to stir, and sip my coffee that's no longer hot. There is a bouquet of vibrant flowers in a vase nearby. Tulips. Carnations. Daisies. A reminder that spring is threatening the blister of cold with change and new life.
Seasons.
Our season at the treehouse is coming to a close. We bid it goodbye with warm wishes and thankfulness for its role in our story. We will forever love it. And one day, we may even miss it.
