There’s a house I love in my neighborhood. Whenever I can, I walk by way of this house. It is a luscious canyon-orange, Victorian with a big porch, upon which a green rocker sits waiting oh-so-patiently. I have never, to this day, seen anyone actually sitting and rocking in that chair, and so I can only conclude, of course, that it is waiting for me.

But my favorite part of this house is a small window on the Orchard Street side, best noticed at night when it’s dark outside and the lights are on inside this house. Framed by this window are four rows of bottles that look to be magically suspended in the air on account of the glass shelves on which I can only surmise they sit.

I love those bottles. No, I adore them. They make my heart sing every time I see them. They look to be nothing-special kind of bottles but I just love them. There are round and short bottles with squat necks and there are tall and skinny bottles with loooong necks, and then there are the regular you-or-me-on-a-Saturday-morning kind of bottles. There are orange bottles, blue bottles, yellow, brown and green bottles. It’s a veritable feast of bottle joy of every shape and color.

On days I feel alone in all the world I can walk past the house of bottles and that window stirs something that reminds me there’s more to life than the thoughts I’m believing about my loneliness.

On other days when I know I’m not actually alone in all the world (silly thought, that one!) when there is joy and excitement afoot in my chest, why, those bottles stir a sense of the mysterious, a sense of what if. They make me want to do things I’ve never done before, like, for example, knock on the front door of that house and say,

“Why hello there fellow lovers of beautiful bottle people you who live in my favorite house in all the world, would you mind if I sat in that your green rocker out there on your lovely porch with my cup of tea?”

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