This time, a tiny house, a teensy town. Handkerchief-shaped baby skunks waddle across the road, struggling to keep up with mama. On a busy day, fourteen cars pass. I lift and twist a medicine ball every morning, pick pink flowers and arrange them in a windowsill Coke bottle. I wash and dry my dishes (I only have three), shake out my tablecloth, sweep the kitchen floor. I sit at a computer and write; there isn't much else to do. I watch The Thorn Birds deep into the night. The supermarket is thirty miles away. The post office is around the corner. I make chocolate chip pancakes. I wake up and go to sleep when I want, am never tired, and sleep next to a laundry basket filled with books. I answer to no one, yet I am nowhere near happy.
Only now do I know how lucky I was.
