Every day this one moment flashes through my mind: my first steps out of the hospital one year ago today. Everything was so bright. And warm. And I remember thinking that life in that moment could not be real. I knew that this would be the first of many moments where Derek was gone.
The first few months, I had the same dream. I was at his funeral every night, only instead of standing next to his casket, like in reality, I was in line with the visitors. The line was so long. And each night, I never made it to him. The line kept going. It was torturous.
Lying in bed, I wondered how every minute could put me farther from him. I could feel the distance growing. One hour. One day. One week...One year.
Elegy for a Boy with Wheels for Feet
I.
When we were nine years old,
we built a clubhouse in the woods.
We tried to level the ground
with a foundation of plywood
and an old car tire toilet
that we rolled up the road from the junkyard.
We spent weeks between the trees,
planning our lives in silence
living together, alone, in the woods.
We buried a chipmunk
under the tree beside our 'house'
and put salt on its body
because you told us to
so the dogs would not find it
after we buried it three inches deep.
II.
I imagine you walking
in memories of our childhood.
I have forgotten that your toes had not touched
the soles of a shoe since years before,
years that sometimes, I can barely remember
because I am confused
that you were always walking,
that you were never bound to a chair
because we never saw it as such--it was your feet,
and you were walking.
IV.
I try not to step on the soft soil
and fresh grass, heavy on your tomb.
I know that you cannot feel it, but I feel bad anyway.
And I wish that you were not there.
And I wish that the grass were not so green
in a long rectangle of new beginnings
or endings.
V.
Snow kept us
from crisp air
and our clubhouse,
still plywood on the ground,
no walls, no doors,
just a hole underneath the rubber tire
too wide for our bums.
And the wagon,
wheels frozen to the ground,
that we did not retrieve in the spring
or the summer or fall
or even the next winter,
maybe even the next year.
But the dogs
uncovered the chipmunk
in a day. And Katlin cried
like the day you ran over the toad,
like the day we thought we were losing you,
like the day that we did lose you.
What happened to the snow?
Monday, August 27, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Familiarity Syndrome
I think the world has a way of shaping itself around us so that at any point in time, we can find a way to realize that we are not as alone as we feel.
I've been a bit discouraged by "the Seattle experience" so far. I haven't really met anyone new, and people are continuing to tell me that I won't because people here are closed off and set in their ways. How encouraging. I'm also told repeatedly to soak in the sun now because, try as I might, I will get depressed at least by March because it is unavoidable. Yet again, looking forward to it.
So now that I've been thoroughly drenched in warnings of negative adjustments that are in my future, I'm starting to understand the reality of this city, the jokes that people always told. The question now: is it worth it?
Is it worth going through the hassle of changing residency? Is it worth pushing through a program that I'm really starting to doubt? Is it worth dealing with seven undergraduate women for at least a year? Is it worth the cold and the rain and the depression? Is it worth it?
I'm sure praying that the answer is yes.
As much as I love lists, I'm not even sure that a pros/cons list would help me now--anything that I could comment on would be so surface-level anyways, as I can't yet grasp all of Seattle's scenarios right now: it's all still so new to me.
On my run today, I witnessed something that has happened to me before, but I can never understand it. Every time that I go to a new place for an extended period of time, I see people from wherever I lived before. When I moved to Waynesburg, I saw people from Mamont; even in Italy, I thought I saw people from Waynesburg, only tanner and taller and with deep, brown eyes. It always takes me aback. I have to remind myself of where I am and where those people really are--be it Pennsylvania, Arizona, or even Italy. But there's some sort of comfort in just thinking that I saw someone familiar, even someone that I only know in-passing.
Sometimes, I'm tempted to just blurt, "You look familiar!" Then I realize how terribly inappropriate that would be, especially since I can hardly get a smile out of passers-by when I'm running or even just walking to the store. Yet, I can't help but wonder: do I look familiar to them too?
I've been having these very strong, but brief, bouts of questioning if I made the right choice in coming here. Some days, it feels so confirmed: yes! why would I be anywhere else? Other days, I feel like "the road less traveled" is that way for a reason: I'm how far into debt for business school?! Sometimes it's just comforting to know that, at least for the next month or so, I am in the same time-zone as Arizona, and that kind of feels like home; I can hide behind these mountains and no one can see me fall apart or get stronger because they are my cocoon, drenched in Puget Sound's cloud-cover, as I morph and grow into God-knows-what. Hopefully an independent young woman and not some freakish cave monster or something. As long as I still have hope in the world, I'll be just fine.
So today, I've been saved by the passing of familiar but unknown faces on the sidewalk, comforting me with the reminder that this can be home too. And even if they won't smile back, it's okay, because I'm still smiling.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Windows, Take 2
So when I last blogged about windows, I was mostly being figurative. Today, I learned that, sometimes, God literally leaves a window open.
My day started out fantastic. I was in a great mood. I watched the last minutes of the sunrise over the bridge outside of my kitchen window. I ate breakfast and cupped my tea with both hands to keep my fingers warm. I posted my "out for a run; please leave the door unlocked" note on the door and went for a run and felt better than I have probably ever felt during a run. Five miles? No problem! Maybe I was just in too good of a mood. Karma is a bitch. Wait, that's not really how Karma works, right?
I said "Good morning!" cheerfully to every person that I passed. A lot didn't even acknowledge me, but who cares? That wasn't going to ruin my morning. Jamming to Coldplay, I walked backwards up the hill like I do everyday (don't look at me like that; it works different muscles!). I even ducked because the sun was shining just right so that I could see the spiderweb going across the sidewalk. Not this time, spider! I bounced up the stairs and opened the door. Not. I didn't open the door. Because it was locked. Because apparently, it's opposite day, and "Please leave the door unlocked" doesn't mean what it says.
An initial burst of rage ran threw me because most days, I feel like my patience in this house is zero. But I decided to give it a chance first. Deep breaths. Think. Think. I knew one of my roommates was inside sleeping, so I knocked on the door. Then I rang our terribly obnoxious doorbell about 9283479374 times. It's really bad; it makes an ERRRR!! sound and keeps going for as long as you hold in the button. No answer. Okay. I tried the other four doors to the house--all locked. I threw stones at the wall (I knew I would break a window if I tried throwing them at glass) to the room where one housemate was sleeping. No luck.
I didn't have my phone, but even if I did, I only have one housemate's number, and she was at work anyways. Aha. She works at the University cafeteria, two-ish blocks from our house. I walked to the cafeteria, but all of the doors were locked, and no one was in sight. I went to the other campus eatery and asked the lady behind the counter. She directed me to the place I had just come from. Great. I gave up and resolved to going home and waiting.
Frustrated, I tried to remind myself that it really wasn't a big deal. I won't cry over spilled milk. I won't cry over spilled milk. I won't cry over spilled milk.
I got to the porch and decided to try the door again. I held in the doorbell this time. EERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I watched the second-hand on the kitchen clock inside. Fifteen seconds. Still nothing. Hands cupped, peaking inside for any sign of life, I saw it---the window, propped open by a can of iced tea.
Seeing the open window from the outside, I rejoiced at two things: 1) that I opened a window last week, 2) that I ran the Rugged Maniac last month, and one of the obstacles was climbing a wall. You guessed it, from the ground, the window was on the second story.
There's a circle of plastic yard chairs by the firepit in the back. I thought I'd get one or two for a head start. Walking towards the backyard, I noticed an old ladder knotted to the cement foundation in ivy. In an excited fury, I grabbed the ladder, ripping apart its ivy bonds. I didn't even bother to do anything about the spiders. I set it against the wall. It leaned left. I tried to adjust it, but it still leaned left. It'll do.
I started climbing. The ladder still fell two or three feet shy of the window, but that was no problem. I stood on the top rungs and hoisted my torso to the windowsill. Are my hips really going to fit through this?! I nudged the window open more; the can fell, and the window stuck open by itself. Please stay open; please stay open. I kept imagining the window falling and my squirming legs knocking the ladder down and me being stuck in the window like the kitten that we found in our basement window at the first house I ever lived in when I was four years old. We named her Lucky.
There must have been some sort of luck with me today because--are you ready for this?--there was a chair on wheels just inside the window. I grabbed it with my hands and gave a jolt. Weee! I wheeled into the house; the chair literally dragged me in. This has to be quite a sight for the neighbors... Inside, I walked up to the front door--my Post-It was still there. I unlocked and opened the door. I couldn't help but laugh. Such a simple thing.
I put away the ladder, gathered up my iPod and water bottle, and collected up my iced tea can to put back in the window. Can in-place, I stared at the window. Laughing, I thought, how do I bring this up to my housemates? If I tell them about the window, they'll shut it, and I won't have a way in the next time they lock me out...
Thank you, God, for windows.
My day started out fantastic. I was in a great mood. I watched the last minutes of the sunrise over the bridge outside of my kitchen window. I ate breakfast and cupped my tea with both hands to keep my fingers warm. I posted my "out for a run; please leave the door unlocked" note on the door and went for a run and felt better than I have probably ever felt during a run. Five miles? No problem! Maybe I was just in too good of a mood. Karma is a bitch. Wait, that's not really how Karma works, right?
I said "Good morning!" cheerfully to every person that I passed. A lot didn't even acknowledge me, but who cares? That wasn't going to ruin my morning. Jamming to Coldplay, I walked backwards up the hill like I do everyday (don't look at me like that; it works different muscles!). I even ducked because the sun was shining just right so that I could see the spiderweb going across the sidewalk. Not this time, spider! I bounced up the stairs and opened the door. Not. I didn't open the door. Because it was locked. Because apparently, it's opposite day, and "Please leave the door unlocked" doesn't mean what it says.
An initial burst of rage ran threw me because most days, I feel like my patience in this house is zero. But I decided to give it a chance first. Deep breaths. Think. Think. I knew one of my roommates was inside sleeping, so I knocked on the door. Then I rang our terribly obnoxious doorbell about 9283479374 times. It's really bad; it makes an ERRRR!! sound and keeps going for as long as you hold in the button. No answer. Okay. I tried the other four doors to the house--all locked. I threw stones at the wall (I knew I would break a window if I tried throwing them at glass) to the room where one housemate was sleeping. No luck.
I didn't have my phone, but even if I did, I only have one housemate's number, and she was at work anyways. Aha. She works at the University cafeteria, two-ish blocks from our house. I walked to the cafeteria, but all of the doors were locked, and no one was in sight. I went to the other campus eatery and asked the lady behind the counter. She directed me to the place I had just come from. Great. I gave up and resolved to going home and waiting.
Frustrated, I tried to remind myself that it really wasn't a big deal. I won't cry over spilled milk. I won't cry over spilled milk. I won't cry over spilled milk.
I got to the porch and decided to try the door again. I held in the doorbell this time. EERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I watched the second-hand on the kitchen clock inside. Fifteen seconds. Still nothing. Hands cupped, peaking inside for any sign of life, I saw it---the window, propped open by a can of iced tea.
Seeing the open window from the outside, I rejoiced at two things: 1) that I opened a window last week, 2) that I ran the Rugged Maniac last month, and one of the obstacles was climbing a wall. You guessed it, from the ground, the window was on the second story.
There's a circle of plastic yard chairs by the firepit in the back. I thought I'd get one or two for a head start. Walking towards the backyard, I noticed an old ladder knotted to the cement foundation in ivy. In an excited fury, I grabbed the ladder, ripping apart its ivy bonds. I didn't even bother to do anything about the spiders. I set it against the wall. It leaned left. I tried to adjust it, but it still leaned left. It'll do.
I started climbing. The ladder still fell two or three feet shy of the window, but that was no problem. I stood on the top rungs and hoisted my torso to the windowsill. Are my hips really going to fit through this?! I nudged the window open more; the can fell, and the window stuck open by itself. Please stay open; please stay open. I kept imagining the window falling and my squirming legs knocking the ladder down and me being stuck in the window like the kitten that we found in our basement window at the first house I ever lived in when I was four years old. We named her Lucky.
There must have been some sort of luck with me today because--are you ready for this?--there was a chair on wheels just inside the window. I grabbed it with my hands and gave a jolt. Weee! I wheeled into the house; the chair literally dragged me in. This has to be quite a sight for the neighbors... Inside, I walked up to the front door--my Post-It was still there. I unlocked and opened the door. I couldn't help but laugh. Such a simple thing.
I put away the ladder, gathered up my iPod and water bottle, and collected up my iced tea can to put back in the window. Can in-place, I stared at the window. Laughing, I thought, how do I bring this up to my housemates? If I tell them about the window, they'll shut it, and I won't have a way in the next time they lock me out...
Thank you, God, for windows.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Ghosts
I've been thinking about Derek a lot lately. What else is new? I've been thinking a lot about all of the writing that I have done--our stories together--and how I don't know how I'm going to continue to pull it all together. The funny thing is...the stories haven't stopped.
Even though I can't write about him beyond these tidbits of longing, I also can't share what I've already written. I can't let anyone see-- it's like opening a book where the spine is in danger of cracking if you let the pages fall apart. But I read them to the ghost who resides at the home where I spent this summer.
I don't believe in ghosts. I used to try to-- I'd search photographs for orbs and watch television shows where the professional ghost hunters sense spirits. I never really felt it. The theory just never meshed with my perception of life and after-life. This ghost was undeniable. He would flash in my peripheral, like how Annie Dillard describes the headlights of a car rushing light through her window in An American Childhood. That's what I saw--those flashes, like someone had walked in front of a lamp. The lamps were lit, and there were no cars.
When I first realized that this really was a ghost, my initial instinct was to be afraid. I had spent several nights alone in the house, pre-awareness of the ghost, and each night, I was more afraid than the next. Of what? I couldn't pinpoint it--how dark it got when I switched the last lamp before scampering upstairs; my reflection flashed in the glass door, as if someone stood on the porch just waiting for me to be out of sight; the creak of each step and how my feet couldn't pass each other fast enough, causing my footsteps to sound like echoes as if someone were following me. So when the reality of a ghost settled in, my first thought was justification of my previous fear, but then I felt so calm.
Calm is a rarity in the chaos of everyday. This calm felt good. I felt happy. Soon enough, I learned the relief of having some company-- I no longer needed to fear these silly nothings because, even if something had come of the noises and reflections, the ghost was in my favor.
I wish that I knew his name. He never spoke, and I just didn't feel right to give him a new name. Despite his silence, we got along well. He really liked the sunroom. Most nights, he would just stand there and watch me. Many of those nights, I would be sniffling and trying to keep my eye puddles from dripping onto a couch that wasn't mine. I could feel him more than I could feel God in those moments.
One night, I went upstairs to get ready for bed. From the bathroom, I looked straight across to the main bedroom. The closet door was open just a little. It hadn't been before, I swear. Maybe it had, and I never noticed. Regardless, I could feel him. Why was he hiding that night? I walked into the room and opened the cupboard door--only clothes, folded, sleeves hanging still on over-stuffed shelves. I shut the door until it clicked.
My mind tries to justify all of this by saying that we think odd things when we are lonely, that we will do anything to comfort ourselves and not feel alone. Maybe it's true. Maybe he was just a part of my imagination. Kim does think that the ghost is a female, and she's certainly lived there longer than me. Maybe it wasn't a ghost from years long gone, someone caught between death and whatever follows. Maybe it was a friend, be it of my imagination or not. Maybe it was God, staring me in the face with the life I have been denying. Maybe it was just what I needed at the time, whatever that was.
My last night there, I was feeling particularly sad. I would be leaving Waynesburg for good. So many changes so quickly. It also meant that I would be going home--a place where Derek was not. I read all of my stories to the ghost. All of them. Every line of every poem and every page that I had compiled. I sat in the living room with my back to the sunroom--I couldn't face him when I was at my most vulnerable. I sat with no one but my own reflection in the large, dark window. Reflections didn't scare me anymore, but I could still see the flash of him pass in front of the light.
But I couldn't feel him anymore.
Even though I can't write about him beyond these tidbits of longing, I also can't share what I've already written. I can't let anyone see-- it's like opening a book where the spine is in danger of cracking if you let the pages fall apart. But I read them to the ghost who resides at the home where I spent this summer.
I don't believe in ghosts. I used to try to-- I'd search photographs for orbs and watch television shows where the professional ghost hunters sense spirits. I never really felt it. The theory just never meshed with my perception of life and after-life. This ghost was undeniable. He would flash in my peripheral, like how Annie Dillard describes the headlights of a car rushing light through her window in An American Childhood. That's what I saw--those flashes, like someone had walked in front of a lamp. The lamps were lit, and there were no cars.
When I first realized that this really was a ghost, my initial instinct was to be afraid. I had spent several nights alone in the house, pre-awareness of the ghost, and each night, I was more afraid than the next. Of what? I couldn't pinpoint it--how dark it got when I switched the last lamp before scampering upstairs; my reflection flashed in the glass door, as if someone stood on the porch just waiting for me to be out of sight; the creak of each step and how my feet couldn't pass each other fast enough, causing my footsteps to sound like echoes as if someone were following me. So when the reality of a ghost settled in, my first thought was justification of my previous fear, but then I felt so calm.
Calm is a rarity in the chaos of everyday. This calm felt good. I felt happy. Soon enough, I learned the relief of having some company-- I no longer needed to fear these silly nothings because, even if something had come of the noises and reflections, the ghost was in my favor.
I wish that I knew his name. He never spoke, and I just didn't feel right to give him a new name. Despite his silence, we got along well. He really liked the sunroom. Most nights, he would just stand there and watch me. Many of those nights, I would be sniffling and trying to keep my eye puddles from dripping onto a couch that wasn't mine. I could feel him more than I could feel God in those moments.
One night, I went upstairs to get ready for bed. From the bathroom, I looked straight across to the main bedroom. The closet door was open just a little. It hadn't been before, I swear. Maybe it had, and I never noticed. Regardless, I could feel him. Why was he hiding that night? I walked into the room and opened the cupboard door--only clothes, folded, sleeves hanging still on over-stuffed shelves. I shut the door until it clicked.
My mind tries to justify all of this by saying that we think odd things when we are lonely, that we will do anything to comfort ourselves and not feel alone. Maybe it's true. Maybe he was just a part of my imagination. Kim does think that the ghost is a female, and she's certainly lived there longer than me. Maybe it wasn't a ghost from years long gone, someone caught between death and whatever follows. Maybe it was a friend, be it of my imagination or not. Maybe it was God, staring me in the face with the life I have been denying. Maybe it was just what I needed at the time, whatever that was.
My last night there, I was feeling particularly sad. I would be leaving Waynesburg for good. So many changes so quickly. It also meant that I would be going home--a place where Derek was not. I read all of my stories to the ghost. All of them. Every line of every poem and every page that I had compiled. I sat in the living room with my back to the sunroom--I couldn't face him when I was at my most vulnerable. I sat with no one but my own reflection in the large, dark window. Reflections didn't scare me anymore, but I could still see the flash of him pass in front of the light.
But I couldn't feel him anymore.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
staggering tendrils
staggering tendrils
run off morning
as people teach you
kisses & meals
consumed by liquid lips,
for leaving is not here
on my evening,
darkened like lace,
by summer--blossomed--
in secrets, wild
with want & why,
when all we have
is this
--like work--
but I cannot ask you
to go.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
black-and-white
3rd Ave.
2:32
cycle
gum wall music
hello.
blue
brandnew
sail
fares
take-off
Photography © Copyright 2012 Natalie George, All Rights Reserved
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Signs
I was nervous--driving into a city that I had never been to, where I would live full-time for the next year at least. When we first arrived, it was chaotic. I was anxious to arrive but was a bit disappointed with what I found. For some reason, I expected Seattle to be as familiar to me as Arizona--enough that I could get where I wanted to go, yet still with much left to explore. Since "settling in," I've realized that I don't know a damn thing about this place.
When we entered the city and saw the freeways and streets, I had the feeling of home that I get when I first arrive in Phoenix. It took me all day to remember that I was four states north and would remain so.
After getting the "tour" of the house that I was to share with seven? eight? (I'll never get it right...) other girls this year, I panicked. Let's be real here--the place looked like it hadn't been lived in for years: mold, flies, scum. I can't even begin to describe it. Taking lots of deep breaths, my mom, aunt, and I went for a drive. For fresh air? Maybe, but for some reason, I thought that I could just find a new place and be done. Be okay.
Attempting to be stoic, we reached the end of my street. We saw it---across the road was a sign, huge, reading "222". My grandma's number. My mom always said that whenever that number shows up, Grandma is with us because that was her lottery number that she always played: it identified her and kept her with us in that way.
"Something good is going to happen," my aunt said.
Even though I have fervently felt a connection with that number my whole life, this time, all that I could think was, "Grandma's not going to show up and make everything better this time. She's not in the material." I was right, and I was very wrong.
We returned to the house and unpacked my things. It's just a house was my mantra for the next 24 hours. The next day, we deep-cleaned the major areas of the house--the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and my room. It's just a house. It's just a house, I repeated as I scrubbed lines of black mold from the bathroom tiles. Light echoed past the pink orchid that previously sat in the kitchen sink housing flies; it now smiled into the sun from the windowsill. I looked at the room and took a more final deep breath. Home.
Chores done, we went exploring the next day. My aunt's number one site to see in Seattle was the Space Needle, so we went there first. From over 600 feet in the air, we viewed the cloudy city. Nothing looked familiar, but I thought about how well I would come to know these streets in the next year, just as it took some time to get to know Pittsburgh when I first started going into town. I also thought about Italy and how I climbed the Duomo; I pointed out my apartment and the many streets that I had ventured in that short month. Maybe at the end of my Seattle adventures I can do the same. But now, I couldn't even point out the direction where my house was or even where the bus had dropped us off in-town.
Next to the Space Needle, there was a new exhibit--Chihuly glass & gardens. I knew that my mom and aunt would love it because they always commented on the Chihuly pieces installed at Phipps Conservatory. We bought a dual ticket for the Needle and the gardens and smoothly transitioned from one to the next.
Bright pieces of ornately twisted and connected glass reflected off the floor, each other, and the spectators' eyes and glasses in colorful array. Outside, orchids and maples blended with glass shine and organic form.
I could breathe easy, and I was growing to like the city--a place that intimidates me at every thought. I knew that my house was going to work out, even though we hadn't found a different one. I knew that I would be okay here.
As we walked from room to room in the exhibit, I happened to glance behind me at the door: Room occupancy, max capacity: 222.
I believe in signs.
When we entered the city and saw the freeways and streets, I had the feeling of home that I get when I first arrive in Phoenix. It took me all day to remember that I was four states north and would remain so.
After getting the "tour" of the house that I was to share with seven? eight? (I'll never get it right...) other girls this year, I panicked. Let's be real here--the place looked like it hadn't been lived in for years: mold, flies, scum. I can't even begin to describe it. Taking lots of deep breaths, my mom, aunt, and I went for a drive. For fresh air? Maybe, but for some reason, I thought that I could just find a new place and be done. Be okay.
Attempting to be stoic, we reached the end of my street. We saw it---across the road was a sign, huge, reading "222". My grandma's number. My mom always said that whenever that number shows up, Grandma is with us because that was her lottery number that she always played: it identified her and kept her with us in that way.
"Something good is going to happen," my aunt said.
Even though I have fervently felt a connection with that number my whole life, this time, all that I could think was, "Grandma's not going to show up and make everything better this time. She's not in the material." I was right, and I was very wrong.
We returned to the house and unpacked my things. It's just a house was my mantra for the next 24 hours. The next day, we deep-cleaned the major areas of the house--the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and my room. It's just a house. It's just a house, I repeated as I scrubbed lines of black mold from the bathroom tiles. Light echoed past the pink orchid that previously sat in the kitchen sink housing flies; it now smiled into the sun from the windowsill. I looked at the room and took a more final deep breath. Home.
Chores done, we went exploring the next day. My aunt's number one site to see in Seattle was the Space Needle, so we went there first. From over 600 feet in the air, we viewed the cloudy city. Nothing looked familiar, but I thought about how well I would come to know these streets in the next year, just as it took some time to get to know Pittsburgh when I first started going into town. I also thought about Italy and how I climbed the Duomo; I pointed out my apartment and the many streets that I had ventured in that short month. Maybe at the end of my Seattle adventures I can do the same. But now, I couldn't even point out the direction where my house was or even where the bus had dropped us off in-town.
Next to the Space Needle, there was a new exhibit--Chihuly glass & gardens. I knew that my mom and aunt would love it because they always commented on the Chihuly pieces installed at Phipps Conservatory. We bought a dual ticket for the Needle and the gardens and smoothly transitioned from one to the next.
Bright pieces of ornately twisted and connected glass reflected off the floor, each other, and the spectators' eyes and glasses in colorful array. Outside, orchids and maples blended with glass shine and organic form.
I could breathe easy, and I was growing to like the city--a place that intimidates me at every thought. I knew that my house was going to work out, even though we hadn't found a different one. I knew that I would be okay here.
As we walked from room to room in the exhibit, I happened to glance behind me at the door: Room occupancy, max capacity: 222.
I believe in signs.
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