Mismatched

The day is hot. The days have been, of late. Time seems to creak by, bogged down by the stick and haze of humidity. Three loads of laundry dry quickly on the line, crisp linens crackling in a hesitant breeze, shadows skipping silently across brown grass. I fold cardboard towels and stiff jeans into my white basket. Lugging it inside, I pause to lean into the tired drone an overworked fan. My shoulders have crisped to a bright red during a brief barefoot stand on hot concrete.

When he wakes, I slip into the air-conditioned bedroom. The window unit hisses and rattles steadfastly, churning crisp air into the room. I feel it skim my skin with delicious relief and position myself carefully in its path. I sort and fold clothes, with motions slow and deliberate. I am no rush to return downstairs. The thermostat hasn't budged in days and when it has, always higher.

I slide the empty basket from the bed letting it drop to the carpet with a hollow, plastic thwap. I unfold myself across the bed, angling and adjusting until the almost-icy air sweeps across my body. The unit hiccups and stutters. I lift my head from the mattress to offer a threatening glare. Chided, the machine resumes its noisy rhythm.

I stare up at the pock-marked ceiling: the two light fixtures (mismatched, yellowed and ancient of days), the gouge in the tile that is nothing more than a rapid repair and mess of plaster. A grin eases across my face as I count the glow-in-the-dark stars I never bothered to remove.

I reach a toe toward the window. The air squeezes into the squishy spaces between my toes. I sigh. As I count the stars on the ceiling I wonder what a prospective buyer would think of this room. This tiny house. This cozy, unairconditioned space we inhabit with the joy and memories of eight sweet years.

Scripture seeps from my memory to my heart: “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” I press my head against the feather pillow into the down-filled duvet and solid mattress. I smile at the heavenly nudge (like a swift kick under the table) reminding me how lavishly blessed we are. How I would love nothing more than to spend a life of service with these unsquare walls and sloping floors soaking up our memories.

And how, unlike the two light fixtures above my head, we and this house are a near-perfect match.

The Len comes searching for me. Sitting beside me, he looks down at me.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Thanking God for our life. For this house."

"I love our house," he says, reaching to touch my nose. "Our home."

"Me too."

Perfect match, indeed.
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Linking up with the beautiful Michelle today: