Someone visited my place and spoke a little longingly about how lucky I am to live in a place that is mine, and is so reflective of me. She said she was a little jealous that I didn’t have to share it. It is all mine.
I said, “Yeah, I really love it here.”
I love all my beautiful coloured rooms, and my old dirty windows and my creaky hallway floor. I love the trim and the tree and my furniture placement. I love my neighbourhood and I love that Lisa still lives nearby and that Kathleen is going to be around the corner shortly, too. I love all my art, and knickknacks and bookshelves. I love that my home is a product of all the love that my friends and family put into it. I love that I can say something as frigging corny as, “I remember who loves me every time I walk in the door.”
I think this apartment may have saved my life. If I hadn’t known this apartment was a cushion waiting for me to land on, I don’t know if I could have kept plowing forward through the worst shock of my life.
I would need to have a very, very good reason to leave it. I would need a very, very good reason to share it.
That said, is there really anything better than sharing what you love with someone you love? Life is best when it’s shared. No matter how much I love it – I’d give it up, I’d share it in an instant.