A patch of sun

I always wanted to be a painter. I just never had the right tools or the space for it.

It is August and there is a house. It has blue window shades.
A “Paris sky blue”, a “Pigeon blue”, my favorite blue.
It is badly worn. It is near the bay.
One day we just passed by, had to stop at first sight and dared to look inside. It is empty. It is abandoned. I fell for it. The scenery seemed to be out of a movie. Not sure if it is a good or a bad one. No light, dusty and destroyed. Who left their painting hanging on the broken wall, their sofa upside down, who left their beautiful lamp stands from thirty years ago behind, who parked and never returned to their boat in the drive way? Who was in such a rush to leave…and where did you go?

North Sea.
There we were. My husband, our baby and I glancing at a dream. A mystery. We agreed on the liking of the unknown. Initially this was just supposed to be a ‘nap ride’ for Clé to fall asleep.
Well, the next morning, we went to find out who the house belongs to. At least on paper. I wrote them a letter, a long letter, a very long letter. I put it in a nice card with flowers on its front and sent it to the address which I got from the Town Hall.

Westhampton. No answer. I waited. I am pretty good in waiting.
No answer. I wrote a second letter. Well, truly I just changed the date on the one I wrote before and printed it out once again, put it in another flower card and sent it.
Maybe it got lost. (Maybe not). Waiting. Nothing. No note, no phone call, no text, no E-mail.
A third letter. I decided to write one that was much shorter than the first and second one and it had a more desperate undertone I guess.
I felt like the flower cards showed a certain consistency that I hoped would be appreciated.
I licked the envelope and ran over the street to throw it into the mail box. You know when you make sure it actually fell in even though you know it did?! I checked twice. Just to be sure. Open. Close. Open. Close. It fell into its place. The letter for the blue house hit the bottom of the blue box. They say there is luck in the third try or all good things are three.

This story might disappoint you.
The flower cards are gone.
I was wondering and walking down Division Street. “Would it be too much to knock on their door instead of endlessly trying to become pen pals?”, my thoughts got lost in a deserted way of what could be and what is. Even if it would be for sale, how in the world could I ever effort it…

I decided to get into photography. About ten years ago. I sticked to the arts. There is a shed in the backyard.

“Just forget about it!”, Fred said.

The grass around it grows wildly. The big tree next to it provides perfect shade. Only a patch of sun is traveling around the facade while the day goes by. The wooden window frames are rotten and so is the roof. I asked a man who passed by if he knew anything about it. He told me that he had never seen anyone around. He lives at the end of the road since a while. A dead end.

The roofed front porch would be perfect to paint on.