Waiting

I remember rolling over and arching my back a little, staring at the ceiling, and feeling my bones dig through the duvet to the hard floor. I remember wishing that I didn't have to roll over. Ceilings are much nicer to stare at than screens. I thought that maybe if I tried really hard, there would suddenly be a real girl sitting with me by the fire, talking. Maybe if I listened really hard, I would hear her voice, or her breath instead of the steady fizz and crackle of the computer. But at some point, when there was no voice and no breath, it was time to breathe out and roll over.
And she was there, but not there.

Given the promise of wide open spaces, my tiny house is suddenly claustrophobic. If there were robbers or murderers, there would be no running away to hide – it is only a few steps from one end to the other, a few turns of corners from front to back. There are screens on the windows and the roof is too close to the floor. The fire burns too hot. If four time zones is crossed in a fibre optic instant, how chokingly tiny is my shoebox house?

The new house waits for carefully packed boxes and essentials separated from the dross. I have so much crap – a collector, a hoarder. The new house will be clean and simple. There will be spaces – a space for coffee and conversation, a cozy nook for reading, a place for sitting and sharing secrets. There will be overly romantic things, like fairy lights and tea candles. Soft things with cats sitting on them. And I will set it all up with a sad smile and a dream of sharing.

It is a possible idea. Uprooting, migrating, leaving and finding. Hard, but do-able. Spontaneous and beautiful, but not very practical. Instead, I will plot and plan and dream and save. And wait.