I like my life at the moment, when I come home and there’s a rabble of dogs, a cat, and a husband that come and see who came through the front door.
I like the silence now, when there’s nothing but murmur from the telly downstairs, and I know Mark is watching something on it. And there’s the hiss of this computer’s fan as I write this. There’s an ever so soft little click each time I press the keyboard on my laptop.
Watson lies in his basket by the door, and Lady is off somewhere else, and the cat sits staring at me on the hall floor outside this office.
The light of this room is not too bright, and it falls out of the window, onto the sill, and onto the little bit of roof that sticks out from the house wall outside. I bet that if I went outside, the light would be warm and glowing and welcoming, and I could think to myself that I live there, and I can go in there and be warm instead of freezing and maybe wet, and I’ll like it. I’ll know I will.
The smell of our dinner this evening still linger in trace amount, and my hands smell of washing liquid after the dishes I did just fifteen minutes ago. And there’s the smell of tea. There’s a mug with steaming hot tea in front of me, and I have a pile of books and papers in front of me which I should look over once more before I’m done for today.
I like this life, in our house, in our little family, in our little town. I don’t think I would trade it for anything in the world. I like the way the questions in my head are gone, shut up for now, and I don’t have to think anything but about this liking inside me.