After our long walk, er... I mean "adventure" ...we reach our goal. It is a large old Victorian home with four floors, including the basement. It is grand, indeed. What it must have been like in its prime. Two rooms are transformed into offices for the director and the staff. It has been cared for, but is showing its years. The floors creak in places as if complaining of arthritic joints. The kitchen has been "updated" with newer appliances, linoleum floors and countertops, dual pane windows, etc. It looks almost foreign to the design of the rest of the house. As inappropriate as a graceful, beautiful old woman putting on a jogging suit and running out on a city street. One understands the reasoning behind the gesture, but wishes it could be preserved as it once was, accepting time gracefully and gently, enjoying the beauty of life in a slower time.

We put away our treasures, munching on a few splurges as we go. The kids are excited to cook and to clean and to take care of our very own things. The expectations are high here. Many rules, many "don'ts," many "do's. Everything is scheduled, regimented. The house (all four floors) are cleaned by the tenants... us. There is no one else here. We make our way to our room. It is on the fourth floor. There is no air conditioning. There are four twin beds, covered in plastic. We are given sheets to put over the plastic, no padding between. There is a dresser and a small sofa, one closet. Our clothes are in a green garbage bag. This is our third shelter, so we understand the rules.

I have thirty days to get a job, find and secure a home, a car, set up utilities, enroll my kids in school. I must attend group counseling sessions once a week in the great room on the first floor. There will be "child care" offered during counseling sessions for the families living in the shelter; that means my three children. We must clean up after our selves after each and every meal. We must follow a chore chart, cleaning the kitchen, bathrooms, vacuuming hallways, etc., all understandable and normal expectations in any home, just a little more daunting considering the size of it.

It is a pleasure to me even still, because of the aged though well-worn, beauty of the home. It is evident that many have come and gone, but the voices of the original family who built it still echoes through it's lovely wings and ornate hallways. The deep dark woods of the carved staircases and crown mouldings are lasting evidence of the hardwood forests New England is famous for. Since I was a little girl, I have dreamed of walking in halls like these and exploring the heart of this nation's birth. I had no idea my own birth would one day begin in this same place. While my friends dressed up in gingham and calico for Pioneer Day in the west, I asked my mother for a colonial dress. I had an affinity for pewter and learned tatting from my 93-year-old piano teacher to hopefully one day make cupboard lace for my future home. For me, coming to this place I'd never before visited felt like coming home, in a strange and eerie way.

Again, I am lost... transfixed by the splendor and history of this place. A tap on the shoulder brings me back to reality. "Mom?"

It is so much easier to bite off my new reality a bit at a time and escaping it when I am overwhelmed, than swallowing it whole and choking on the pain; wrenching back the tears. I have gone on this fanciful journey alone, only for a moment, but a moment is enough to rejuvenate.