Transfer

How often I think about the weather. How often I long for the storm.

I haven't cried this much in months and months. I haven't been on the edge of crying so much in a year. Outside, a hot haze. Pavement. Dry. Perhaps I'm compensating for the lack of moisture and emotion out there. If only a storm would come. If only I could hear thunder, transfer the turmoil to the sky.

Right now, the clouds are getting darker while I'm inside trying to get light.

Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House

When I think back on the places I've lived, I now wonder this: I wonder if the real measure of "home" is the degree to which you can leave it alone. Maybe appreciating a house means knowing when to stop decorating. Maybe you've never really lived there until you've thrown its broken pieces in the garbage. Maybe learning how to be out in the big world isn't the epic journey everyone thinks it is. Maybe that's actually the easy part. The hard part is what's right in front of you. The hard part is learning how to hold the title to your very existence, to own not only property, but also your life. The hard part is learning not just how to be but mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.

--Megham Daum, from Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House