the sense that all of this—the brick the roses climb, the lath and plaster, the copper pipes, the oak floors, the coal room, the cracked slab on which it all rests—is a gift. Not to me, but to the future. The house is just passing through my hands. It’s not a purchase, it’s a husbandry. I’m in service to the house. The truth of this is married to the other truth, that the house serves me.
