I’m sitting on a side table that’s usually meant for the alarm clock. Incense smoke drifts lazily to the ceiling, where I bet it lives for a while and I just don’t see it. My coffee is cold, but it always is after I’ve found it again.
The piles keep moving from one place to the next as I mull over what goes where, what needs a sweep, what I can do to change, change, change; how I can make change. The sun is streaming in through the window, and someone’s spraying for ants outside, but I’m inside like an ant, pushing my dirt around this way and that, beside other ants in other homes pushing their dirt this way and that.
Yes. The chair will go there, and it will make me feel better. Yes, the lamp can sit there, and I will feel better. Help me move this bed, this table, this box, and maybe we’ll both feel better.
And as we sit on the chairs that are chairs again, at the table that is a table again, all our piles put nice, we do feel better. Change makes change. A robin sings out the window. The grass is greener on the other side. Someone refills my coffee. The steam drifts up to live with the incense and I am just grateful to have a place called home.
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Jessica Barratt 