by Adam Schmideg
I watch them through the window, though I am not sure where the window is. It is somewhere between here and there, between longing and finding. I have looked through many before this one—families of hurried dinners, quiet misunderstandings, love that does not always know how to reach beyond routine. But this one moves differently.
The father passes a chisel to his son without a word. The mother and daughter sketch together, their pencils sweeping across the same page, sketching a frog opening its mouth. On the table, wooden toys take shape, a concept piece for an interactive space leans against the wall, a half-written program flickers on a laptop screen. It is not just the things they create, but how they create them—layer upon layer, idea upon idea, as if the space between them is as much a part of the work as the wood, the graphite, the code.
I step inside, choosing this family as my own, choosing to be born here. The air is still. Wood shavings pile up, curling at their feet. The son leans in, shaping the wood into something new. The daughter traces a fine line with her pencil, then tilts her head, erases, and redraws, more certain this time. The mother watches the brush in her hand, its bristles heavy with color, before dragging it across the canvas in a slow, deliberate arc. The father steadies the wood under his son's hands, pressing just enough to keep it from shifting, but never too much. They do not speak much. They do not need to. I pick up a small unfinished piece—a wooden curve, sanded smooth but incomplete. I turn it in my hands, feeling the weight of possibility.
No one stops me. No one questions why I am here. The mother slides over a pencil. The father nods. The daughter smiles. A place is made for me, just as naturally as a piece fitting into a larger whole.
I have found my way home.
(written as an inspirational feedback to our project)