Cold returned and so did they, away from the city to farm and woods and home hidden in the trees. Opening door, they breathed the light-must scent of air unstirred since last when they were there. Home and room were all the same, unchanged since last when they were there, as if they’d never left, and so it seemed within her soul in the homeliness and peace of all.
She loved how home was not designed in theme but amalgam-composition accented and adorned in the live of many lives. Of these lives—accents, styles, spirits, and souls—she loved to see touchings of her own, her style and eccentricities becoming part home’s greater soul defined in generations’ interweave.
She watched her child in play on floor before, on rug-spread before the hearth. Last time there, she had lain and moved only upon her back. Short time of life, she turned over now and was in begin of learn to crawl. She watched her as her daughter moved, wide eyed and bright in seeing-absorb and notice of all around.
She wondered if, when her child grew, she would add accents to it too—another layer, another soul, added spirit to the home. She liked to believe she would, and that she would see the spirit of her daughter, like layered paper of the walls, becoming newest and top-most spirit in living accents of the place.
She thought too, generations on, wondering how far it’d go and, in the passing of the time, how much and what of her would remain that generations on would see.
If that wasn’t magic, what was—life and presence long beyond one’s own, not a ghost but living spirit in what one leaves behind.
She smiled in the muse, feeling her heart warm.
Enchantments and endearments, dreams and thoughts she had, when returned to home and peace hidden in the trees.