A month ago (or more) our porch was demolished. Temporary steps were built.
This morning, we've locked the screen door.
The temporary steps are gone.
The mailman just came and knocked on our door. He couldn't find the mailbox. That's because it's resting on a stump until we can figure out where to attach it, temporarily. Maybe onto one of the little birch trees in the front yard? He handed the mail up to me.
If the rain holds off, they'll start digging the footings today. A delivery of wood is due to arrive, too. Work begins. Because I wheel and deal in metaphor, I see it everywhere. I see a door to nowhere, not yet; I see the potential in wreckage; I see the markings, the plans, the anticipation, the invisible groundwork. I see impatience induced by ugliness and stasis. I see something good coming, if only we can wait.