I see my house clearly in my mind.
The weathered furniture rescued from flea markets, given love and a new coat of paint
Mirrors and shelves and shelves and shelves of books, bits of driftwood and old pictures- bottles found and filled with the tiniest shards of smooth sea glass
Clocks and papers and shells and dried flowers in vases- a perfume that smells like home and the salt air
And white curtains that catch the wind and dance for joy of movement
And my room: with the window and the desk and the chair so certain, I know already I know. The bright light and the fall of the pen and the remains of breakfast in the corner. Both clutter and space and full, soft white light. And the birds call outside my open window, my beautiful paint-peeling window.
My house visits me in waking dreams- does yours?
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