One doesn’t find a place, one makes it.

We couldn’t drink the water in this apartment. The smell was, well…the fact that it smelled should tell you enough. My mother boiled it. Assuring me each time, we wouldn’t be here long. Maybe it was only a year. Possibly less. Time does not pass equally in every address. 

But the rules were the same. “Beds must be made,” she said. “No dishes in the sink.”  Pictures were hung. Books placed on shelves and nightstands. Music played — 45s purchased for a dollar at Carlson’s music center. And we dressed, not for an occasion, but because we were the occasion. “We’re not vagrants…” she said, “yet…”  We could always drink in the laughter. 

Each apartment we moved to was an upgrade. But one was not more, nor less, a home. It was always home. Because we were together. We created the space we wanted. 

When I moved to France, I brought almost nothing, but was certainly not empty handed, nor empty hearted. Our house is filled with art and books. With the scent of bread baking. Photos of family. Friends. The sounds, the marks, of those who pass through — by foot and by heart. And I’m known to change clothes several times a day, because I am the occasion — still and always — my mother taught me that.

Sometimes I catch myself in the worry of time racing, but then remember, this is the gift — I will make something of it!!!