my home

I sold my parent’s home, where I grew, and laughed, and loved so much

to move across the water and do something scary and uncomfortable.

March through August was a state of transit;

floating

and searching

and waiting

and hoping.

I wanted a home that was warm and safe.

a place that inspired me and held me.

a space I could feel free and passionate in.

a safe home to grow, and laugh and love in.

In September, my home became real and tangible and it is mine to love.

my love is up on a hill;

there always seems to be a chilly breeze.

I get a familiar sense that I’ve lived here before, perhaps in another life.

There is an Asian pear tree in the back,

and a colored stained glass window that fills my walk up the creaking stairs with light and rainbows.

There is a neighbor that plays the violin with the window open during the day;

I like to think they are playing for me.

There is a large stone patio where I enjoy drinking my morning(or afternoon, or evening...) coffee,

and an open rooftop where I enjoy drinking my chamomile tea at night.

There is a room with a piano,

and a room with many plants,

and a room with a wall of mirrors

and a closet full of long wool coats.

I sleep up on the second floor,

in the lavender room.

I feel held.

I feel safe.