A shack of her own

It's amazing how much difference a little sunshine makes. I'm a new man. Woman. Whatever. Who cares, the sun is shining! What could possibly go wrong when the sun is shining? I spent the morning pulling weeds in the front garden, navigating the steps (yes, the same steps that tossed my mother like a stick doll, leaving her breathless and broken in the concrete step well), and saying howdy to all the pedestrian strolling by on their way to Mt Tabor Park to blow up stuff and watch the waterfront fireworks. My skin is tingling from too much sun. Skin cancer? Who cares! The sun is shining! I planted some squash and beets that have been languishing for weeks in the shade of my back porch. One volunteer sunflower nodded far above my head while I impersonated Pizarro, machete in hand, hacking at the undergrowth. Look there! Evidence that tomato plants really do reseed themselves! 

It's July 4, my own personal emancipation day. Nine years ago I left a lousy relationship. I packed up and moved all my stuff while he was camping for the weekend with his three teen-age sons. I took nothing that wasn't mine, except perhaps the stray cat. I moved to my present humble abode on the slope of the extinct volcano. I have never regretted anything about that relationship except starting it in the first place and waiting so long to leave it. Only two regrets in almost five years isn't bad, right?

When I first moved, I couldn't believe I had so much space to myself. A kitchen! An entire bathroom! A bedroom, for me? And a living room, a room in which to finally allow myself to live. Who cares if the place is dark, moldy, and drafty. Who cares if the most frequent bus route in the city lies fifteen feet from my bedroom window. Who cares that the bizarre acoustics of this corner allow me to hear everything, I mean everything, night or day. Who cares! No longer was I relegated to one corner, one stinky kitchen nook, one shelf in the fridge. My boxes finally had a home. 


I was slow to unpack, sure that something would go wrong. For months I expected a knock on the door and a gruff voice saying, no, you are too happy. You are not allowed to be that happy. We will have to kill you now. Whenever I was scared and feeling unsure what to do, I would ask Meme, the long-haired cat. He would say (in cat language), “Sleep! Eat! Play! Poop!” I did what he suggested, and gradually I grew to fill the space. 

Now, nine years later, I'm hemmed in on all sides by artwork, books, binders, photos, and 55 years' of knick-knacks, all sitting on shelves I built with my own hands. Some of the shelves are a little askew, not quite square, but they are multi-colored and embedded in the studs of the walls, built to last, built to hold the evidence of my life. I love my shelves. I love this shack. The fact that someday I will have to leave makes the passing days bittersweet. As the landlord begins the strenuous task of replacing all the windows in the building, I can see what will eventually come.

But today, life is good. My concept paper is put to bed—for one week, anyway, the sun is shining, and it's a day to celebrate freedom. Freedom from tyranny of all kinds. Freedom to live as I please. Freedom to be who I am. Freedom to just be. Just for today, even the malcontent is smiling.

Happy Freedom Day.