by Lisa


Opportunity awaits.  Staying positive, when I feel like I’m embarking on a wagon train to the wild west.  I’ve imagined packing for a cross-country journey for years, inspired by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  Ma had Pa, but I am Ma with the muzzle-loader, alone.

I bought pepper spray, but the gun on my belt and the revolver under the table should prevent the need to use it.

Also, tonight I learned that this is my only week alone.  I’ll have company next week, armed company most likely.  The .45 will still ride on my belt, but company can do the shooting with his or her own pistol.

All in all, this is a crazy thing to do.  Before embarking on these small adventures, I usually need to do some serious nesting, and today was no different.  I flipped rooms with Thundergirl successfully.  Many hugs, much laughter, all a surprise to her.  Now I lay in this smaller room, with my things, but…condensed.  Less room to make a mess, I hope?  A chance to look at new things upon waking?  Different places to hang pictures?  Actually, I do not care where I sleep.  I just wanted that sweet girl to feel special, and she does.  I’ll camp out in the back, and she can have the bigness.  This is my version of a bedsitter.  This is my French attic, my retreat from the world. I can’t see a street from these windows, only the yard and houses.  Once I fill it with plants, paintings, more mirrors, curtains too full for the narrow windows, then it will be mine.  For now, I rest uneasily with blank spaces.

My past housemates hated my love of textures and layers.  Now I pile and pile and pile, hanging scarves over chairs and the one fur stole I can’t seem to give away across a sconce on the wall.  Too many blankets stack on the trunk, but there are not quite enough…yet.  The stack might reach the ceiling some day, and I would be happy about that. I reject minimalism for sensation and stimulation to the point of satiation.  This is my calm.  This is my home.

Tomorrow, when I drive away, I will feel physical pangs of loss, even though I’m coming back in two days.  Imagine how leaving my little person with her daddy felt when that was new.  I died a little every time.  I still do, but she always comes back to me.

I always come back home, too.  The things I’ve carried for decades, junk to you, home to me, carry with them my family.  I’ve lost nearly everything in a fire, and I learned the value and valuelessness of possessions.  Then, I still had the people I treasured.  Now, those people are gone, but I have the things that they touched every day.  Because I have those things, and I share them with my small person who touches them every day, I am home.