Every wall is marked with the outline of someone I loved, leaning against the door frame, talking into the group that's hovering around the too-small kitchen while the oven warms us in a sauna. Every seat, someone’s seat, someone’s favorite, chosen seat where poetry was written and coffee was sipped and songs were sung. Every floorboard held the weight of heartbreak and hugs and blind dogs and hobbling toddlers and road-weary guests.
Where there was warmth, there was a fair share of silence.
Where there was laughter, there were also quiet tears.
Where there was connection, there was also, “Now what happens?” after the truth was spoken and the spell broken.
There were fires and feasts; playlists and pizza; fresh flowers and record players; music videos and band rehearsals; prayers, melodies, lyrics, watercolors, handwritten letters.
There was then; there is now. There was before; there was after.
You, my dear Malcomb House, are the book I never imagined I’d put down, the chapters I thought might never finish being written, though I’d dreamed of writing others. But I’ve marked up the pages and that which matters will remain, bookmarked to be found again when the time is right.
I’m almost at the Finish. These pages are well-worn, and I am well-read. I am nearing The End.
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For those who entered these doors and walked these floors, keep scrolling for more photos of the Love that's filled this place.
