Page 116 of This Love is Under Construction
“Turns out none of this is actually essential,” I say, pulling out my go bag, some old relocation notes, a business card for a Brooklyn realtor. “Someone else might need them.”
He watches me quietly, eyes soft. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” I set the box aside, then reach for a new postcard—one with a photo of Winslow Cottage bathed in autumn light, chimney smoke curling into the sky.
“What are you writing?” he asks.
“Just updating my address,” I say, smiling as I uncork my pen. “Permanently this time.”
He doesn’t need to read the words to understand. The gesture is enough.
When I’m done, I place it on the sill beside the faded San Diego card. Past and present, question and answer.
Owen’s hand finds mine.
The next morningis crisp and golden—the kind of autumn day that feels almost too perfect to be real. We sit on the porch, coffees in hand, a stack of design sketches between us.
“Eastern exposure needs adjustment,” Owen notes, pencil already moving. “Morning light in the kitchen would make more sense.”
“Agreed,” I say. “And maybe we could use some of Walt’s hoarded cedar for the accent wall? If he’ll part with it.”
He nods, jotting it down. Finn lies at our feet, ears alert for squirrels.
Movement near the birdhouse catches my eye. Two new birds—different from the last pair—hop along the railing. One inspects the entrance. The other stands sentry.
“New visitors,” I say.
Owen looks, his gaze softening. “Checking structural integrity before committing.”
“Smart birds,” I murmur, leaning into him. “They don’t know that birdhouse’s history. The storms it’s seen. The hands that fixed it.”
“They will,” he says. “They’ll make it theirs anyway.”
We fall quiet again, watching the birds consider their future.
The birdhouse stands, weathered but upright. It isn’t flawless. The seams are visible if you know where to look. But it’s holding. It’s enough. It’s home, and so are we.
