Growing up meant a no-line on the volume knob where you are not allowed to go past because of a wall separating us from the neighbors. It meant calls about our cooking smells and muddy soccer shoes being tied to trees.
Our house is music.
Each room thumps with vibrancy.
Love makes lots of noise.
Now we have a house where we can play music above the no-line. Love isn’t quiet. It hollers back at you, saying, “I love this song. Turn it up.”