Trespassing.

I saw old houses on our drive home from Charlotte yesterday. I wrote this:

I feel like exploring a big, empty old house. The old fireplaces that still hold ashes. Evidence of squatters (empty baked bean cans and an empty box of matches). Light fixtures and naked bulbs swinging. Creaking, cracking stairs. White sheets over strange shapes. Peeling paint and wallpaper. Strange little rooms. Crumpled paper. Rusty jacks and worn-down bears. A moth-eaten bridal veil. Candle wax on tables. Wavy windows. Dust a half-inch thick. A child's button-up shoe. Mice in every corner, too bold to hide and too stupid to fear me. Fear like a swallowed golf ball in my throat, my hand slick around a small flashlight.

Antiques.

When I was younger, maybe around 10, I was wild about antiques. They were beautiful and scarce, and they were often hidden among dusty junk.

Going to antiques stores was a treasure hunt. Mom and I sometimes raced for the tiny, colored glass bottles. I still have a dark purple bottle barely the size of my palm.

Antiques fed my daydream worlds in which I mostly explored periods that I'd learned through American Girl. My favorite antiques were school books. I was thrilled to find names written inside.

I also liked antique suitcases--I could take strange, dress-up journeys. This past Christmas, my mother gave me a beautiful blue train case. Just looking at it makes me feel imaginative.

I once haggled with a store owner for a pair of soft white gloves with buttons. I'm sure a couple of weeks of allowance was no where near the price label, but I left with the gloves.

When we met, Josh told me that he collected antique school books. I thought he must be lying. But it was true, and it was perfect.

For 20 years or so, I loved the thought of mother-of-pearl opera glasses.