Planks of honeyed grain, build by light-seasons hand, were the constant of our home as fashions came and went.
The old wooden floor has been shaped over time by the soles of this family, of generations of living and loving right here.
The floor of the old house swirled like driftwood on the beach with the same softness new wood never has. The varnish that trapped its moisture must have been gone two decades previously, maybe more, just tiny fragments remaining here and there.
Though the exterior of the house has suffered many winters and storm seasons, the old wooden floor has been sheltered inside. It still bears the characteristic hues of American walnut, dull, but in a way more beautiful than any engineered product could be. It is a woodland dream that we have the pleasure to walk on, its colours soothing before the red glows of the hearth.
The old wooden floor is more cinnamon where the varnish holds and paler in the regions that have had more wear. The eyes of the wood are as dark as the grooves between the planks, grooves that vary as much in thickness as the gaps between Elijah's new teeth. Even if the house was blown away in the wind, I would rebuild anew around this floor. If the kitchen is the heart our our home then this floor is the welcome mat for all who call themselves friends.
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