I got a new neighbor last week.

I read a book once about a family who moved into an old house. In the attic, their daughter found a dollhouse model of the house. Every time she looked through the windows of the dollhouse, the girl could see into the lives of families who had lived there in the past. When my family moved into an old house a few years ago, I thought of that book and what the house might have looked like through a pair of 1947 eyes. I wondered if they were hiding somewhere peering at me, telling me not to hang that picture there, trying to warn me about the squeaky floorboard in the middle room. But where we once felt like intruders, the house is now full of our own memories and smells. It's our home now.

Sometimes I ponder the idea of "rental homes" and "homes for sale." Everyone knows you can't rent, buy, or sell a home. But sometimes you can make a home somewhere, only to then move away and let someone else come along behind you and make a completely new home in the very same used space. When we left our house in the subdivision, the next door neighbor got upset because the new owner trimmed our hedges wrong and painted the porch an ugly color. Fleeting as it may seem, I felt the same way every year in college when someone else's name was on the door of my old dorm room. I feel that way now when I go back to visit. The building is the same, but it all looks unfamiliar to me. It isn't home anymore.

A few days ago I was chatting with Lisa, our church pianist (I usually get along pretty well with ladies who play piano), and she asked where I live. I described to her my brick building, not the sketchy one, the one across the street from the sketchy one, with a big tree in the front, the only apartment with a door that opens to the street. Oh, she knows that place. Lisa used to live in this very same apartment.

Now whenever I wash dishes or open the blinds or sit on the toilet, I think to myself "Lisa the church pianist used to do this exact thing in this exact spot." It's a little weird, but I like knowing someone nice was here before. You never know when you move into a place what kind of person was there before you... It makes me feel better about walking around barefoot (I NEVER went barefoot in McAllister Hall).

Once upon a time, Lisa lived in an apartment that opened to the street, with a big tree in the front yard. Lisa is now happily married and living in a little house with an adorable little girl who is learning to play piano. One day I will move out of this apartment, get married, and live in a nice little house with an adorable little girl who will learn to play piano. I hope then another nice young girl moves into my apartment and makes it her home, and then moves out to get married and live in a nice little house...