Monday, December 3, 2012

Coming Home

She reached her doorstep. The key turned sweetly in the lock. That was the kind of thing one remembered about a house: not the size of the rooms or the colour of the walls, but the feel of door-handles and light-switches, the shape and texture of the banister-rail under one's palm; minute tactual intimacies, whose resumption was the essence of coming home.
Excerpt from Mrs. Miniver by Jan Struther


Pom Pom said...

Oh, BLISS! I love this post, Debbie.
I want to curl up on that pretty sofa. Would cute kitty sit on my lap?

M.K. said...

Yes! So true - which is why when you return to a home you love, you find yourself walking around, laying hands on things. Banister rails especially, but also chair backs, door jambs, and even walls. I love the feel and sound of an old skeleton key in a lock. This post makes me miss the first home we owned -- an 1870's Victorian in rural Mississippi. That house was constructed of more ghosts and memories than wood.

debbie bailey said...

Karen, probably not! She's pretty skiddish. MK, I'd love to see a photo of that house!