Our home sits in a half-built state, like some great empty studio filled with tools. I can see her. I can feel myself in her and imagine the wonderful meaning of her framing nature for me to see. I dream of the warm fires and Christmas Trees she will hold and the parties and reunions and grandchildren that will snuggle into her. She is all around me, beside me, above me. She is a half-made gift, a coat without a lining, a birthday cake still in the box, a canvas gessoed. Our home sits in a half-built state, and I, in a whole-built longing.
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