Memories are strange. I think light is part of my memory bank. Staying in this bungalow so powerfully reminds me of Winter Garden and the tiny bungalow there, my old life. How many times did I sit and try to cobble something from nothing, sit and write with no hope the writing would ever go anywhere? How many times did I sit alone as the light faded, and then was dark?
That was a time when I had a "home" that really was a home, with wood floors and creaks and smells and shadows dancing on the plaster walls. A dog in the yard. Babies sleeping in my arms. The smell of bread baking in the kitchen and bowls of soup. Life. Routine.
I can't remember it that well, what it was like going to bed with my husband, waking up. It is a rush of memories that stand out because of their horror. The fights, the unwashed dishes, the tiny space, the piles of laundry, the loneliness. Only certain moments really stand out, beautiful or terrible, in life's run.
But this is different, too. What would it be like to have a bungalow of my own? Tea and a pet. The writing, of course, mainly. And even the New York Times delivered daily. Sweaters and throw blankets and book shelves, built in to the walls. That might be a nice life. Something to shoot for, I guess.
Need to summon up something to do some good writing. It's hard sometimes.
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