I’ve always found your house oddly appealing. I suppose because it is well-kept, and no weeds seem to be growing in the front garden. Your house just looks nice, in the same way that houses can look sad, lonely, rude or proud. I like the quietness of your house, and how it stands contentedly on its piece of land, respecting its neighbours, uninterested in competing with them. When I see your house, I can’t help but stare – and I wonder if your house would to me feel like a home.
If I knocked, would you let me in? Seeing me through the peep-hole, would you sigh your disgust, frown with curiosity, or open the door unhesitatingly? Would you make me a cuppa, and tell me to make myself at home? Would you take me through all the rooms, even the ones at the back, those that typical guests aren’t allowed in? Would you tell me why some of your curtains are drawn open, while others are closed? Would you tell me the story of each photograph I see? Would you tell me what foods you eat, what books you read, what songs you listen to, and what plants you grow? Would you thank me for coming?
Tell me – if I knocked on your door, would you let me in?