The House on the Corner

Emma gets to walk wherever she wishes. Her time at the end of the leash is hers to explore. At the end of the driveway, left or right, her choice. Same at the end of the block. She prefers to walk in a circle, never doubling back on where she has been. Still, I confess, there is one route, up Handley Street to Court, make a right, that I prefer. It is the house on the corner of Harry and Court. An old arts and crafts, with huge empty lots all around it. The owners are gardeners, even in the winter it was clear, the raised beds, the paths for weeding and walking. The owners are also collectors. Small statues, glass objects, wind chimes. All winter and into the spring every time Emma and I walked by the house, I just felt that surge of love. This is the kind of house I want to live in, I would think to myself. It was so clear that the owners are project people. On the porch, a chair to restore. In the yard, a new patch of land to till. It was clear that the owners are artists or at least artful. They love beauty as much as they love chaos. I wanted to live in that house. I wanted its occupants to be my friends. Even in the darkest hours when I wanted to retreat from all people, to live on forty acres and never speak to humans again, that house reminded me of a world where people could be kind and trusted and honest and caring.

When it was wintry out, we met the man who lives there with his four small dogs. They barked fiercely at Emma and nipped at her legs. We did not have a chance to talk, but the encounter made me love him even more. How those four small dogs loved him, how he loved them. It was all there in that moment. Two weeks ago, Emma and I were ambling by while he sat out on the porch, finishing an egg sandwich. He came out to talk, to pet Emma. He loved her immediately. Who wouldn’t? Especially if you live in a cool, funky, well cared for but slightly battered house? He told me his name but I have forgotten it. I have seen him two more times since. He always remembers ours. Julie and Emma he calls out. It is lovely to be hailed. To be seen.

The walkers at the park hail us as well, me and Tibe. Not by name, but they recognize us. They know us. Being seen, being known feels quite profound these days. An antidote to trauma and grief. We are going to shed the house near the bullies and the bigots. I am starting to imagine what it might look like to not be living on the lam. I know it includes a funky house with space for projects. I want to be like the person at the corner of Harry and Court, hailing people as friends, eating egg sandwiches, riding a bike around town. I want to be safe. I want to be free from threats against my person, against my dear sweet crazy dog. I want everyone to get exactly what they deserve. I want queer people to be valued; I want us to be safe in our clubs. I want us to not be pawns in public trauma. I want a sweet house on the corner where I can sit on the porch and imagine a better world.