Where I Hang my Hat

Standing in the front window at my mother’s house always reminds me of waiting for dates when I was a kid.

Here, I am home. My friends are here. My family is here. Memories are here. My first kiss was on this street. Who needs a new house when you have one with great character and company?

Here I have three dogs to laugh at, but I have traded one sickly cat for another.

Then there are the little differences. I can use water straight from the tap and not filter it. I can eat what I want without fear of admonishing eyes. I don’t have to separate the fiction from the non-fiction on the bookshelf. I add fabric softener to the load of towels like a normal fucking person. There is stuff, stuff and more stuff, and clutter everywhere. I can clean up after a pet without being told that I’m not doing it right. Everyone helps clean up after themselves so I don’t feel like the maid.

I have faith in my abilities. I am appreciated and loved. People acknowledge my natural talents instead of trying to stuff me into an ill-fitting cookie cutter.

I have emergency contacts that you can actually rely upon in case of an emergency.

There is always something going on; it’s certainly not as isolated as I have been for many years. I’m a rather phobic introvert, and yet that lack of daily socialization caused much internal strife and seemingly unquenchable loneliness.

Most notably: there is no inference of I love you, but I would love you more if you kept up with the house in the way I prefer. Or if you lost a little weight. Or if you had a "real" job.

This is contentment and comfort. This is home.