The Woman In The Wee House

In my grandmother's home there was a shelf, above a window, decorated with ornaments, pictures, religious iconography and a little house.

The little house was no simple knick-knack.
It was home to a little couple that couldn't bear to share the same roof.  Each day one would retreat behind the walls and drive the other out into the elements.  The woman busied herself with laundry, enjoying the mild weather and the warm summer sun.  The man marched out under wintry skies, dressed for rain in his anorak and umbrella.

I would push either the woman or the man into the house and wait for the other half to emerge.  Sometimes I would try the delicate task of balancing the two under the same roof that they might reconcile their differences.  That little thatched cottage, how I would wait, watch it and check on it.  How I pondered its accuracy and its machinations.

My grandmother passed on.
The years drifted by and her house changed.  It grew dark.
I worried about that little house.  Was it safer where it was upon that shelf or should I take it and put it where it could be seen.  So many things get broken and so easily.  I deliberated time and time again before finally carrying the little house across the road and up to my own home.  It was dirty, covered in layers of dust.  I cleaned it, gently pressing the dust from the grooves in the thatched roof before placing it upon the windowsill in our kitchen.  It's still there now.

They are still reluctant to share the house.  They leave at alternating times.
Wind, hail or shine, someone steps out.