Crisp linen was spread on the wood table Mother would cook for anyone coming through that old front door. While soup simmered, grandmother complained. A bag of dirty laundry brought by a young married would wind up in the washing machine. Clean laundry flapped on the line. There is no one to drop in on now.
Strangers live in that house.
Friends are different. We can run for comfort, but there is no Sunday dinner. Once there was. How I envy them. They have what I crave.