The house

A house in a mountain village. For peace, one could find no better place.
The house is full of memories and mementoes. There's a small room for a little girl who has since grown up. There are pictures of happy people who have since passed on. But there are water-colours that are timeless. One remembers doing each one.

Late in September, when the sun casts longer shadows, what seems too sudden a seasonal change in less than one month, often reminds us of the fleeting years.

The light now changes rapidly, à vue d'œil. The days become much shorter. Once more we think of the autumn of life.

Peering carefully towards the descending sun, one remembers the past. Perhaps it makes us smile, to gaze at the changing light, and think back on how sure we were of the future.

If life were an eternal summer, it would be less beautiful. If we knew exactly where we were going, there would be less point in going there.

A house in a mountain village facing south, perched on its range of rock. The house is full of treasures. Some are very old. Heirlooms of another age, from another country; part of the lives of others who were far more homely and settled.

When no one is in the house, early sunlight might peep through the closed shutters and send a small, gold dust beam to caress an old wooden chair that has its own, long history.

Or shafts of moonlight might glimmer through the slats, to bless and bid the deserted house goodnight.

Text and photographs © Mirino. September, 2013

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