I don’t know how to write a poem. This was going to be a poem, but I never ever understood poetry except for that it is beautiful. Instead, this is a story–or more like an excerpt of where I am. I am on my couch, in my living room which is a room inside of a loft inside of a big house off of a windy dirt road on the edge of town.
Before we were dating, Cooper told me I was home to him. Like the feeling of a cold beer in hand on a warm night, he told me. Home, as in familiarity — a lifelong friend that you just get. Now isn’t that poetic? He described home in the perfect way. It’s a comfort that is only understood by analogy and never completely comprehended by explanation. Home is when you’re with just the right people at just the right moment, and there is no pressure to do anything but love them and talk with them.
Sitting here has become my favorite thing. Sometimes it’s in the morning, when I force myself away from my ruffled and cozy mess of a bed and nestle into the very corneriest corner and peak through sleepy eyes at the grayness outside. Sometimes it’s when I’m eating dinner and Cooper has found the corner and I brought him and I a shareable sized bowl of spaghetti and we eat there because we are adults and we can do that. Sometimes its mushed between a bunch of friends late in the evening, just wishing time would go away.
The more I sit here, and have this view of the house (erm.. I mean.. loft), the more I fall in love with these four walls and the home-ness that happens here. I know it’s not necessarily this house, or this street, or this city, or this country that makes it home, but the culture we’ve cultivated here. The fact that it’s us and it’s normal is what makes me feel this fluttery feeling every time I take this seat.