I moved for the sixth time in 12 months, last week.
Walking back to my new building, I stumbled upon this lost little house, waiting for someone to come play.
It’s a funny feeling, to be perpetually carving out new, temporary living spaces. I’m settling into my two-month sublease, but with the knowledge that I’ll be uprooting again in August.
For the time being, I own three plants, a double-sized bed, and sheets. I unpacked my books and filled a borrowed bookcase. The others are stacked in the corners of my room.
It was all I could do to keep myself from dragging this raggedy house back home with me. I wonder what this means: the impulse to collect wayward, ferile homes, the way some people want to rescue stray kittens. Since I can’t seem to find myself in one stable location long enough to make a nest, perhaps saving this little one would be the next best thing.
Maybe I’ll go back and find it. Maybe I could use it to hold those extra books.