As I write this, Longfield's westward facing Gothic window is catching the light of the early winter sun setting on Narragansett Bay. Dusk and then night will follow in short order and Longfield will once again be shrouded in darkness. Unlike her neighbors, no lights will shine from within (the electric lines have not run to the house in some time). She will welcome no one home save the deer that make their beds in the long grass outside. Inside, the grand staircase, the cracked and broken fireplaces, sit silent in the dark and cold. Waiting. Do houses have souls? Are there, in the timbers and planks, memories of the first cries of birth and last breaths taken? Do they, like us, yearn for purpose?
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