The old couple sat in lawn chairs in the skeleton of a house, partially framed. There would be a second story but not now—the carpenters had all gone home. They could’ve been anyone, as we all might, but at the same time, they were themselves particularly.
The new construction, at the end of a long, provisional driveway, was surrounded and hidden by a thick stand of oaks. Next to the house a small fire burned, feeding on the work day’s wood scrap. The unfinished house held its place awhile between oak tree and ash.
When the carpenters returned, the old couple turned them away. They would stay in their house the way it was; it was so pleasantly breezy and the sky was its ceiling. You don’t want it finished? the carpenters asked. Someday, they said. But when? they queried. No hurry, no hurry.