I want that feeling you have when you have a place to call your own.
Something that says you belong here.
I want to fold arm loads of laundry,
soak mountains of dishes, and
hide love notes in secret places.
It has been a year since we last had a place that was our own.
And though it seems small, un-important,
to some,
I want to give my children a place that is theirs.
Not something borrowed.

I want to wake at night
in the locked stillness of a house,
and walk through each darkened room,
running my open palms
across the coolness of the walls,
in appreciation
for the things I have been given.