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The Glow

I got a new daybed in my house. The bed is minimalist for a small but important room: the room has the sacred palm in it. I’ve reupholstered the furniture to fit in this new house. I’ve had pillows made. Lamps are set out. Pictures hung. Bedding added. Charging stations rigged up, carts assembled, rugs cleaned and laid on their mats. Brooms have been housed in crannies. The washer and dryer stacked in the closet hum and whirl reliably.

Twigs gathered, a nest feathered.

The lamps glow golden in the night, seeping into darkness at the edges.

When I lie on my back on the front porch and gaze upward, I see the softly painted blue ceiling…and a mouse scurrying down the overhead wires.

We have no curtains.

This house—warm, quiet, peaceful—just withstood a 1-mile-shy of Cat 3 hurricane. When the storm was bearing down, I was calm in a way I’m not sure is admirable. I thought, I have loved my house for three months. I might lose it. But I have had it as mine and loved it for a while. Be grateful for that.

When Zeta blew through, the neighbor’s tree shook loose a deluge of rose-colored blossom, stiff as rice paper, baptizing the entire house (front yard, back yard, side yards) and our welcome mat with rose petals.

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