The red light bulbs dangle, lonely in the windows, signalling emptiness. Barrenness. Expectancy. Silhouetted against the faint glow of vacant homes, hazy light thrown in by prairie-sky and the smiles of children playing carefree on the street. Motionless, the bulbs hang, telling the neighbours' stories, all the same, yet all different: another family sent to another base. And a different family, embarking on the long journey here, to take their place - to take up residence in the teal-/turquoise-/cream-sided duplexes, to replace the hanging red lamps with flowing curtains or venetian blinds. Not long ago, the creaky buildings wrapped themselves around their service families, guarding precious together-moments, fearful tears, infant squawks, childrens' squeals, and lovers' sweet nothings. Now, they stand at attention, unblinking, ready to greet their new families, these "foster homes" of sorts. And our new neighbours will greet the house, in turn, with open doors, fresh air, a new adventure. And the house will stand at ease, enveloping its new family and inviting them to turn house into home, for a time.
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I have been participating in imperfect prose on thursdays, a blog initiative spearheaded by my friend, emily, at in the hush of the moon. Please click on her button below to read the posts of other participants through her blog.