This is where I live.
The windows are drafty. The pilot light on the hot water heater goes out regularly. It’s usually a revelation I have as I’m ducking into the awkwardly-shaped shower with little water pressure. I am pretty sure I have mice, but I am certain I have a steady stream of spider roommates. The kitchen is only big enough for one person to stand in it. There is no stove or oven, so cooking takes some pre-thought and creativity.
I love it here.
I love the fireplace, where I can cozy up under blankets and watch the flames ebb and flow.
From there, I gaze up at the ceiling. It’s not stark white and textured like every other modern day ceiling, but instead covered in lines of parallel beams. I have never seen another one like it.
It’s walls are warm taupe and yellows.
When the wind blows, it howls through the chocolate brown shingled siding.
It has a funky staircase up to a second level room that is a great perch to watch morning sunrises out of a french door that is actually a window.
From the deck, I can view a ripple of colorful Victorian rooftops.
A garden of flowers and succulents and rosemary is steps from my front door. That garden is neighbor to two sweet border collie mixes who greet me every morning.
I feel safe here. And warm even when it’s not warm. This house is a canvas I get to paint on my own. I don’t share walls or bathrooms or bob and weave around anyone to make coffee.
All of the quarks and drafts and inconveniences about this place just add to its charm.
It feels like a haven from my hectic world.
It feels like home.