Sometimes when I walk past the door inside the apartment, I forget that I'm in an apartment. The stack of locks and the light from the hallway peeking around the edges are somehow coded not-home. More than once, I've caught my mind whispering, 'Gosh, we've been in this hotel for a long time,' like the ghost of a thought that almost isn't.
And yet, all my things are here.
All my books, all my yarn, my cello, my photos, my spinning wheel, my dishes, my broom, my tax paperwork for the last ten years, my clothes, my bedding, my bills, my teapots, my computer.
All of it.
In the place I picked.
Sometimes it feels so very right, and sometimes it feels unreal.
Like playing house.
Sometimes the sky is too beautiful for words.
And I feel so blessed to have found this apartment in this building on this floor on this side.
The Netherlands Carillon and the bugle calls at Fort Myer make an unexpected and pleasant counterpoint to the urban din of quotidian traffic and emergency sirens.
Yet, even as high as we are on the eighth floor, the overwhelming sound throughout the day is the birds who make their homes in the trees that reach higher than my windows.
I definitely didn't expect the birds.
Someone pinch me.