We moved. I like this house. It really is pretty, and it really is nice. It’s much nicer than our old house and much bigger. I do feel at home here. Our old house, I lived there for 17 years. That’s pretty much my whole life. You know, what I can remember of it anyway.
We live in the same city. I often drive by the old house. That’s when I miss it the most. I know someone else lives there, but that’s my house. My room is in there, and I can’t even begin to imagine my room belonging to someone else.
At least here, we have windows. We have these huge windows all over the house. Our yard isn’t that special or anything, but there are a bunch of plants. And there is this waterfall thing. That’s pretty I suppose. I might not like the yard much or the view, but something about these windows is almost inspiring.
Now this is where I write. Before, I never had a specific spot to write. I didn’t like writing in one place over another. I guess I still don’t have a special spot because it’s almost anywhere. I can sit at the kitchen table–like I am now–or I can sit in the sunroom. I can even sit in my room and have the windows to inspire me.
This house isn’t perfect. But there is something about it that gives me hope.