The late spring evenings are bursting with hazy light and warm breezes, hinting at harbingers of summer. The birds sing wildly, abandoning all pretense of restraint in their song. The sounds of our neighborhood are straining with life. Tree frogs chirp and dogs bark and you can hear neighbor kids yelling to each other while balls bounce against pavement and smack against bats. Clouds billow and cover the sun for a moment and tremendous storms bring reminders of our smallness. Clover blooms and leaves unfurl and it all feels right. The flowers are welcoming any chance at sun, and seem to hit growth spurts of full-blown beauty. It’s almost summer, and just lately we are noticing how it seems like even the everyday, the mundane, the take-it-for-granted daily routines seem lovely and extraordinary. It’s just a little brick house on the corner, nothing too unique or grand in its place. There are cracks in the pavement, and weeds grow here and there. But there’s just enough room to play, irritate your siblings, and race around on bikes. It’s nothing too special, but it’s home, where green grass grows quickly, the flowers bloom like they mean it, and the neighbors wave and smile knowingly. We take walks almost every night just as the sun sinks low and the air gets clean. Sometimes I get the itch to move, or buy land, little dreams taking their flight of fancy now and then. Thinking that privacy and more room will fill some unnecessary need. But every time I think those thoughts, there’s sadness at the thought of leaving this little spot on the hill, thinking of how it reminds me of my own childhood in a little neighborhood, in an old creaking house with a tiny backyard. The neighbors knew you, and smiled as you played and argued with your siblings and raced around on your bikes. You felt safe and free and just… happy. The walls seem to soak up memories and leach out their stories as the years pass. It’s nothing too fancy, this little piece of property, not even close to perfect. But life is good, right here.