Flattened stone floor, covered in wooden slats, the portico with columns and even arches, not exactly the porch the other house (our same floor plan doubled into something else) had across our common grass.
It is not a beautiful day in Mexico City unless you can see Popocatépetl. In this place, beauty is determined solely by whether or not the volcano breaches the nebulous smog like a visitation, by whether the eye can ascend its snow-covered face. When what was sensed but veiled yesterday is suddenly revealed today, it is, in the smallest way, a faith realized.