When we find the perfect house there’s no lightning strike. Just a quiet knowing, a certainty. The walls are painted the same blue we painted our own, and everywhere there is light filtering through giant windows.
“I could live here,” we say, again and again.
It’s out of the city and suddenly I’m suffocating in the desire for it—the way all these people don’t even look at each other and how the sounds of all this get in your bones and make them ache, make it hard to sleep at night.
It might as well be the other side of the world, but I can’t order it. The cover’s too perfect, and you know how I judge them. Still, I read everything I can about what other people think about it, how they react. I am there vicariously through critical raves, with my feet on the wall above my old bed and your voice driving the words home.
Love is where we build it, where we set up house. And it was never going to be easy, but for deciding to work at it, because sometimes you want to and then sometimes you just do.
There’s a room that will be my library, just off the front door, to the right. An alcove begging for built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves. A window seat. That’s where I’ll shelve it, next to the Elizabeth Hay I’ll never read, and the letter flattened between its pages. Unsigned.