The house was built in 1873.
There is paint torn off in places like worn out handprints placed against the wood for luck. 
The woman painted her house the color of her soul, the color of her hopes and dreams, the color of a memory of an ocean she left behind with a boat and a country she would never see again
The house was delicate and fragile like her bones but entwined and intricate like her thoughts built strong by unspoken words and feelings she could only translate in a language of dead trees and paint the color of a sky with no more clouds troubling her view.
The chimney was tall and lean like herself 
The oak tree in the front as strong and old as the grandmother she remembered only as an afterthought 
The number was placed next to the screen door, 120, a magical number that meant nothing and everything to her. The lamppost though out of place, she kept, like the lighthouse and how it had guided the ship through the thrashing of waves and the storm of emotions roiling in her gut. 
She carved the simple lines of stars into the outline of her roof, a small thanks to the stars full of wishes that kept her hoping and granted her a life she had given up on. The house was blue, like her soul surrounded by brick houses stout and without a heart. Her house was blue, her house was her dream shaped and sewn into reality with nails and boards and a few wishes carved into the wood for luck. No one passing by would realize beyond the color that the house was different, that the house had a heart beating, beating, beating.