Mine and His

There is a small yellow house for sale and I want it. It is empty and I want to fill it. Fill it with my overly laundered laundry, stained by lazy separating skills, wrinkled from a lack of folding focus. Fill it with the pretty novels I have bought in judgmentally high expectations. Fill it with my collection of heart heaving memoirs and vegan cookbooks (a vegan for one year and a cookbook for every day of that year). Maybe I'll sell them instead of packing them, instead of explaining them. I want to fill that little house with my diaries, pages of seriously frantic cursive scribblings. Fill it with our sheets, pillows, and comforters, comforts we have carried from Amherst to New York City to Boston. Computers, cameras, found furniture, things, my things, his things, our things.

Our things to fill space.

Like an excited boy scout flipping through crunchy pages of a Playboy magazine, I camp out on the website's lawn, scrolling through posted pictures of a small dining room, a sky lighted living room, and a fenced in backyard. This little house grabs me by my hope and pulls. I daydream of lawnmowers, blenders, washing machines, puppies, slippers, space. My space, his space, our space.

Our space full of our things.

My dreams are as tangible as tangerines in the tropics. I just need to stop packing, stop breathing down Future's neck, and stop throwing firecrackers at the horse pulling my carriage.

I need to look out the window and enjoy. Take a picture and remember this slow, unpredictably bumpy ride.