Seeing filled, not empty

When the above pictured house was built (1965) there was just enough foliage planted to round out the squareness in corners and soften and fill an otherwise stark landscape. I was only 3 then, my brother, Tim, 6.  I wondered if that was Tim standing in the den window just to the left of the garage. It does look like a little person is standing in the window, doesn’t it? Maybe it was me? My birch tree, the driving force and theme of my memoir, had not been planted yet. After some time, the front yard filled in with a circular landscape bed around the lampost and another tree stationed here and there. When I look at this picture I don’t see the nakedness of the yard. I see my birch tree, gracefully swaying in the breeze in the middle of the grassy area in front of the two white pillars. I see furniture through the window, conversationally arranged in the living room and drapes frame each window. The house filled with mom and dad and Tim and me. I see things filled, not empty.

 

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