My spot

I don't have my place. I sit here in this house with not enough furniture around me, and I am uncomfortable. I rock in this sunroom as I think about being in too much space. I love this new home, I love that we have space, and I love the idea of the sunroom being a haven for me. The current barrenness of the space only makes it stark. I know more furniture will come in. We will find homes for the things that stump us now. But until I have more of my things around me, it feels lonesome.

I played a game in the old house---and house it was, though it could never be a home. The game was "In the next house." In the next house I would have all the things I really wanted. I would have a dishwasher, a larger kitchen, a driveway without ruts in it, and gas power. I would have more than one shower, a ceiling that wasn't collapsing, and an attic free of rabid bats. I would have sidewalks to stroll on and a place for my rocking chair, in a house that didn't regularly get struck by cars. At least I would in the next house.

I have all these wishes fulfilled now. But what I never expected to get was a lonely feeling. I felt strangely sheltered in the last house. With less space, the furniture was closer together. I would sit in the right-hand corner of the loveseat and next to the bookcase. It was my spot. My kids would switch seats to free it for me. I fit there. I belonged in that location and I owned it. I read, prayed, sang, and talked in that place. And now it's gone and I am adrift.