This is my new place. It’s bright and airy and took me exactly six minutes to mop each floor, which is pretty incredible seeing as the place I came from looked like it had never seen a mop, even though I’d scour the kitchen floor on my hands and knees in a feeble attempt to tackle two decades’ worth of grime only to end up in a heap of tears when it looked no better. I think I started avoiding the kitchen. And that’s saying something because I love to cook. Yesterday, in my new kitchen, I celebrated by cooking as if it were Thanksgiving for one, a feast that comes in handy now that I’m lounging around watching football.
In addition to moppable floors, I have windows that work (goodbye peeling lead and rickety storm windows!), doors that seal properly, kitchen appliances with fancy features (a temperature dial on the oven I can read!), and a bathroom that’s not friends with mildew.
My neighbors brought over wine and seem nothing like the psychotic neighbor I left who’d swear at everyone in the neighborhood, including his mother; my other neighbors are so quiet I don’t even notice they’re there (they died in the 1800s); I can hear the train in the distance, see the old jail from my house, and every so often catch the lingering scent of aftershave in my medicine cabinet from the man who used to live here. The sun comes in at an angle every afternoon, and my plants savor this time much as I do. Sometimes we just bask in the sun, like we’re cats, and that’s enough.