It’s what happens in small towns. Your life changes, people die, but life goes on in the place you once thought of as home.

Twice now, I’ve had the privilege of being in the homes of the people who bought the homes my family owned.

Yesterday I stood looking for the doorbell at what was once my sister’s home. It turns out they’d taken it down because it malfunctioned. But the fact was I didn’t know where the doorbell was because of course I never had used it. That almost derailed my ability to go in that house — thanks for the reminder, reality.

But once inside, it was all warmth and sweetness. The house does look great. It’s fine that it’s familiar. Or it was yesterday.

I could tell them the story of Jack and Jane — a great love story — who married in what is now their dining room. We could sit around the table that they obviously sit around a lot. and she’s as silly a decorator for seasons as Deb was.

They talked very seriously to me about their plans to love the house… as if I had to be assured they would do right by it and i told them how deb and nan and i all planned to rock on that porch with sippy cups in our old age… and laughed that I’d be over. They laughed too.

And so they were married.

And it was bittersweet. But, it’s the season of bittersweet isn’t it? And it is bright and glossy orange. And sacred, it seems.

And the sweetness is still there. And there is a great deal of Peace in that. (And did you see that Frosty Moon last night? It was beautiful.