When you live in older houses or apartments you are coming into spaces lived in, loved in, by others. Do the former inhabitants leave traces? The only place I have lived so far that was "new" was a model home ranch house that my parents bought when I was ten. I think I will think more on this, blog further on this train of thought, in future.
But the image that popped into my head this morning was the memory of the afternoon light in my fourth floor railroad apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. No matter what was going on in my life at the time, just hanging out in that room in the afternoon was always a soothing and reinvigorating experience.
To all the rooms we've loved before . . .