Sometimes when I'm driving at night, I glance at the houses I pass. Little stories begin to unfold.

I see an elderly man sitting by a lamp table, coffee cup in hand. I note that it's almost 1 am. Is he waiting on a phone call? Perhaps he got bad news today and can't calm his nerves enough to sleep. I imagine that he worked 35 plus years on the 11-7 shift and has conditioned himself to stay up until 4 or 5 am with ease. His normal bed time is still hours away.

A teenage girl sits at a piano. Does she have dreams of becoming the next Tori Amos? Is she practicing for a church performance that she knows she's not ready for? Maybe she really wants to be a drummer, but her mother thinks that's unlady like. So with every soft key she plays, she imagines herslef behind a plexi-glass wall, pounding a beat.

A dim light shines on a paneled front door. The door appears to be bright magenta. Is it that color in the daylight or is it the yellow bulb creating a new shade of pink? Perhaps the man of the house chose this color becuase the thought this is what his wife meant by 'warm and inviting'. No, I decide the wife chose the color because it reminded her of the flowers that grew in her grandmother's yard.

I wonder what stories unfold when you drive by my house.