For almost a century, the warm, soft air of this house draws us like children to the piper. We are led to this house by spirits gone past, bringing us back to the places of our childhood, leading us to this sanctuary. Children have slept on this grass, boys have wrestled in these rooms and strangers have partaken within these walls. These rooms bear the joys and burdens of birth and death, and quiet bowl of bottled cherries with family.
Coke bottles are tossed slantwise in the snow, beads of water stream down the kitchen window, and grandma's hands run butter over the hot rolls. We ride in the wheelbarrow, play whiffle ball in the thick warm grass, hang from the clothes line and pretend under the boughs of the tall evergreen. We can hear the lid of the silver candy dish, the squeak of the towel rod and the whir of the cooler. We can rest our eyes on heavy pink roses. We can smell the perfect roast. What things we have learned sitting in the shade of the little white house as the cars thump and creep their way home.
What brings us here is more than all these things. We come down because we belong here. And while the streets have changed, this house will outlast them all, standing guard on this little corner of Navajo Street.
And now that the light on Navajo street is dark and the contents of this house scattered into our own homes like seeds, we begin anew. We take your pots, your dishes, your chairs and your love, and we nourish these seeds you have planted and we welcome all as our own. We will always have our Navajo streets, where we eat a little too much, laugh a little too hard, and stay just a little too long.