We’ve been working hard to fix up my old woodshop into an apartment. We’ve got a nice couple who’re moving in at the end of the week. They started dropping some things off today, a canoe and some boxes. We started talking about the house more broadly, about how it was blue, about how we call it Indigo House. They explained that they’ve been referring to it as “Roby’s Place,” a nickname I strongly prefer.

The house may be blue, but it used to be red, and we could paint it any color we like (we won’t, we like the blue). But no amount of paint will ever make this place not Roby’s. Even if we move, she was born downstairs. She will always have been born downstairs.