When the fire caught, the woodstove made a sound like an old creature waking

When the fire caught, the woodstove made a sound like an old creature waking up — metal ticking, creaking, expanding molecule by molecule.

It was almost language.

The house had a rhythm during winter: • tick tick tick of the stove • the hum of the fan pushing warm air • boots thudding by the door • snowmelt dripping in a tin tray

That sound was my first experience of what I now call domestic intimacy — the feeling that you are held by something, even if it is inanimate.

When I build things now — cabinets, wagons, puppet stages — I listen for that sound. It is the sound of something coming alive.