bare floors

I underestimated the feel of bare floors on the soles of my feet.

Last night, I broke down the last cardboard box and threw it in the garbage. Sure, there's plenty of stuff still left to hang (framed poems, postcard art, ornate daggers, candelabras) but I had put away all my cut-glass bottles, books and stone gargoyles. I had vacuumed any remaining cement dust out of corners and from behind hinges; I had wiped off the counter top and dusted the furniture; I had put everything in its place. Then I just stood there, the wood warming under my feet, smooth and hard. I looked at the yellow light spilling from behind my cream lamp shades onto my cornmeal walls, the gauze curtains shifting slightly in the post-midnight summer breeze, the clean glasses twinkling on my mosaic granite countertops. My books were resting comfortably behind the glass doors of their shelves; my laptop hummed Massive Attack softly. For a moment, a split second I felt it: home. I can't really describe it... it was like a split-second quickening in my stomach and rush of dim electricity on my heels. For just an instant, I could see clearly all the good things that would happen here: parties, Book Club meetings, movie marathons, board game nights, Survivor finale feasts, late nights with Thai food in takeout containers, baking Christmas cookies, reading books, watching TV, falling asleep on the sofa... Yes, for a moment I forgot all about the construction that still lay ahead and the cabling that still needed to be laid and the months of "breaking in" this new structure still had to endure before it finally settled. But it didn't matter. I was home. My home.