The other night Benjamin and I went for a walk in our neighborhood, and we found a secret lake.
We discovered it by hiking up and around four streets with charming names—Cottontail, Whitetail, Pintail, and Deertrack.
The homes along these streets were gorgeous. Many of them had backyards graced with lovely willow trees and decks that faced the hidden oasis. Front yards were perfumed with lilac bushes and cherry blossoms.
I have no desire to own a home. For a while in my early 30s, when I was single, I thought about it. I even went out with a realtor and almost signed on a bungalow in the adorable Seminole Heights neighborhood of Tampa. The story of not signing had to do with some dreams of gypsies and a ghost boy swallowing sand on the back porch of this house. But this story is for later and maybe better as a poem.
My point is that I’ve never really wanted to own property, but after our brief stroll, I did think about it again. How nice it would be to sip coffee or wine on our own deck as we looked out at water. This is a sweet, Romantic image.
Then I think about things like having to take care of plumbing, yard work, and snow. I think of being married to an object rather than a person, who, like me, wants to travel. I think about these things, and I am grateful, satisfied to simply admire other peoples’s houses as I keep walking, at least for now.
