A Little Box of My Own

I confess: I really want a "little box" all my own. Not one made of "ticky tacky . . . all the same" as others, but a tiny house like this one, or this one, or even this one.

I want to shed the stuff I have carted from state to state, town to town, apartment to house: books, bookbinding materials, paintings and pictures, even the few family heirlooms. I want to give to my niece and nephew what they want or to others who can use any of the remainder.

I'll keep my cat, my computers and photo equipment, my clothes, and just enough practical furniture to fill my tiny house and make my tiny heart expand.

Give me wood floors that don't collect fur or dust bunnies, a space I can clean in a couple of hours, a studio for writing and thinking and teaching and blogging, and a view. Put that tiny house in woods or near a pond or creek. And please let it be near a branch of my family.

I dream at night of my tiny house fit for a queen, and I wake in an albatross of a cottage. Then I look at tiny houses here and here and here, and I feel the big envy building for one of my own.

Snug as a bug bluebird in a comfy box, that's what I long to be!