Our house moves around at night. We're sure
of it. It takes a stroll around the neighborhood,
then returns and settles down on its foundation.
We can feel the house moving. It's sort of cool,
like riding on a train, except there are no clickity-
clacks. The house moves smoothly, as though
it's floating on air, leisurely sailing down one
street, then up another. None of our neighbors
have mentioned our moving house. Mrs. Smedley
hinted she may have seen it trucking past her
house late one night when she couldn't sleep.
"Something very large whisked past my window,"
she said. "And I don't believe it was a car or a truck."
My wife wonders if we should tell someone about
our moving house. "I don't think it's a public
hazard, honey," I say to reassure her. But, to be
honest, I harbor secret doubts. What if the house
decides to move to Kansas or Oklahoma or some
place far away? "I guess we'll cross that bridge
when we come to it," I tell my wife as we settle
in bed for the night. "In the meantime, bon
voyage."