I am sitting in my house writing this. Well, its not actually mine but I’ve lived here nearly a decade now, and I know it as well as the owner who has lived on the other side of the wall for only a little bit longer. I know every inch of floor and wall and ceiling, because its only three close, comfortable rooms. I know the scuffs on the polished floor, the cracks in the tile grout. I know where the draughts pass and I know where the heat collects. I’ve come to recognize the patterns in which doors work best in what season, and I am no longer surprised to see sunlight through the floorboards in the morning.
Each room is intimately familiar, their dimensions known by sight and sound, their colors carefully chosen and proportions easy to accommodate. These rooms are nearly a part of me, and I a part of them. After all, without the varied detritus of my life and taste on the walls and furniture these are just dead rooms, I have brought life to this piles of wood and plaster. Yes, this little house has served me well, I have loved it and in return it has hosted the best times of my life and sheltered me through the worst. I’ve been through hurricanes in this house and I was in here that time it snowed.
I am leaving this house in the next year, and I will miss it. I will miss its quirks and peculiarities for they complimented my own quirks and peculiarities. This house taught me how little I needed, it taught me to want to need even less than that. This house taught me that the most important parts of life are experiences, not stuff, and for that I will forever be grateful, no matter where I am living.