More than anything I want a place of my own. Small is ok. Affordable is a must. A patio or garden area. A space for my art table. It’s been 3 years of living under other peoples’ roofs. I’m grateful but it’s hard to have my own life when I am immersed in their lives.
I want my arbutus tree. The 5-inch sapling is now a 30-foot beauty. I would have it today if I hadn’t moved 1.25 times per year in my life. Gawd I’m tired of moving.
I want the smashed pieces of my flower-bud glass candle-holder from Orrefors Sweden. I could glue it back together piece by piece.
I want the whimsical, crazy-coloured fish dish back. I’d like to collect all the shards to piece it back together.
I’d like my 42-foot C&C sailor boy back in my arms – – ha ha, that’s not likely to happen.
I’d like to catch in my arms and hug both my bare-naked toddlers running around the backyard. The same yard where my arbutus grows.
I want my sister back. Back when she allowed me to be different from her. Not the sister that scrutinizes and judges and disrespects.
I want my dad back. Back to the powerful man he once was.
I want my energetic young-at-heart mom back. Back to her usual solidly grounded, lovingly empathetic matriarch.
But time passes and with age comes sagging memories and families that fragment.
Most of all, I want a regular, boring life back.