Yesterday was my house’s birthday.
Now, she’s always becoming, our Taigh Connlaich, House of Baled Straw.
She’s always doing, becoming, changing, hoping for a stove, sub-letting to a snake, redecorating with chives, getting rid of the old, reflecting my mental state (which is, to be fair, always changing, too).
But yesterday was her birthday. The anniversary of when the People came to move in.
There was no back door that night and for several after, but those are mere fripperies, doors. What is important is the People sleeping inside.
That’s how she counts it, so that’s how I do, too.
Happy birthday, Taigh Connlaich.
How sad you seem without children.