For the first six months John was in India. I weathered the winter in the airstream trailer and ate too much in Kenya's small kitchen with the single overhead light with the pull string. He returned with the spring, a generous gift in a t-shirt and New Balance. Even in my sad and withdrawn state I could see that John's presence signaled the start of something new. He and Heather moved into a house on Shaver Street. He was skeptical and kept referring to the people that lived there as kids. I almost think he said teenagers but maybe I just wish that he had. They were young and had dance parties and I was happy to stay at Kenya's and avoid them. He was too. But over the course of the summer he softened and began to think of his house as a home and his housemates as friends. Overtime I felt the same. Their house was magical and became a focal point for art, music, and love. John and Heather have lived at The Shaver House for... four years? Four years of shifting alliances and fruit flies. Four years of hot summer sun on the front porch and a no-shoes policy. The chicken coop got larger, the house-plants got larger, the view from the upstairs bathroom stayed the same. One would only need to chronicle the days and nights of the Shaver House to understand this particular community during this time. It is like a child's hand clutching history, a surprising amount can be held within a small space. Wednesday night was The Last Potluck at the Shaver House. And thanks to Seth Brown and his merry version of inebriation, it was...a grand farewell. Thank you for the time.

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