Space.

Not that kind.

Ever since I was a little kid I had this idea that I would live in this cozy house with pitched ceilings and a few dogs and no one else. I could see it. The bedroom was blue with diaphanous curtains that blew gently a breeze that carried the sound of a nearby river and was lightly scented by pine trees. I would always have home made food around and a stash of frozen homemade cookies in the freezer. There would be trees. There would be snow. And even though I lived alone, there would be love.

In my heart, I already loved this space. It was mine. All of my most prized possessions were there: artwork, rocks, plants, and a guest room always at the ready — just in case.

And then…life happened. So…much…life. And I forgot. I built my life with a partner and, yes, at some points, approximated much of the space that eight-year-old me imagined. But it was incidental, not intentional. Accidental, sometimes.

The place I’m in now is nearly perfect and it was the only place available when we moved here for her job. It’s an apartment in an old school house and half of the walls are giant windows that flood the whole place with sunlight, or give a perfect view of thunderstorms and snowfalls. The moon streams in, filtered by trees, but still almost too bright when it’s full. The ceilings are high, dotted with the original light fixtures, and the…