I sit on the verandah on the morning of my 54^th birthday and it’s as if I’ve just arrived. I look around with fresh eyes, loving every detail of the house. The dense tangle of verdant palms, the lines of sight into the garden, the way it’s all been laid out, the choice of paint, the personal knickknacks…I thoroughly approve. Someone really knew what they were doing here, I think.

I regard them across the chasm of 17 years...that fearless couple, scatterlings thrown together even more years before, driven, imperfect, incomplete, building this place with no prior experience, knowing exactly what they didn’t want, and trying to extract the best they could from their meagre resources. Looking back, I’m alarmed for them…their blind optimism and their hubris, their flaming rows. Building this place almost finished them.

The garden is now mature and full of life, the house is lived-in and brimming with personal memories. I admire their work, appreciating their eye for detail. I wouldn’t change a thing. I feel a deep sense of kinship with them but know that I don’t have their energy or tenacity.  

I feel the past crumble and fall away behind me and zoom in to the present. I realise that this house is mine. That long-ago couple have bequeathed it to me, perfect and complete in every way.  I am grateful to them for what they did. It’s a birthday gift from our younger selves.