It’s only been four hours since I last woke up in your arms. Those strong, vaulted arms, magic of plaster and light.
I’ll never forget the first time we met. When I took you by the marble stair and you took me by the heart, leading me through your bright lofty halls. Past all that you meant to others, to what you mean to me.
You spoke to me then, without saying a word. Beauty through golden proportions; strength through a solid, acoustic stair; love through a lyrical wooden floor.
You have good bone structure and timeless, elegant grace. You’ve aged well; no-one would guess that you’re almost two centuries old. Through the satin patina of your glassy knobs and polished banisters, I could see that I was not the first to fall in love with you. Nor will I be the last. But you. You, Dear House, were my first true architectural love.
You were a refuge for me, for us. A wonderful, patient companion while I wrote, sang, worried, argued, discussed, worked, played, cooked, cleaned, cried, planned, schemed, cherished, lived, laughed, loved. For the past four years, you knew me better than anyone else. You set the stage for my stories, playing the silent protagonist. As I tried on the roles of my East Coast self, you watched patiently, in silent reflection.
They say we’re different people in different spaces. That architecture informs identity. In you, I felt smarter. More literate. More graceful, elegant, and refined. I saw my reflection in you. It was beautiful.