I'm looking through the windows at someone else's future home.
What will they carry through this door? What will they expect to hear and smell and say when they cross over this threshold?
It's not a perfect house.
The dining room, for example, is really just an extension of the kitchen and rather cramped. There are other quirks and patches and places the tile doesn't exactly match.
But the Christmas mornings around that fireplace. And the stories read in that brown chair. The simple pieces plunked out at the piano.
But the piano and the chair will be coming with us. And this will all be refurnished. And filled with new children and unseen Christmas mornings.
Someone new will stagger to the kitchen in the dark for a drink of water. Faces this mirror has never seen will close their eyes and dream while the moon wheels through the sky above, unfamiliar hands rubbing strangers' eyes in the first fuzzy light of dawn to peer back through this sliding door.
But the mirror, too, is coming with me. All that stays behind are the things either too big and rooted or too small and ephemeral to pack in boxes and load onto a truck. And it is only tonight, looking in from the outside at the place I have been so long within, that it seems to me that some of the smallest things were really all along the biggest.