The box that was my home for eight years was filled with all the emotions I had, except pride. I had happy memories, and I had felt at peace, but I never felt proud of that place, and often felt frustrated or embarrassed by it.
My neighbour three-doors-down, my friend, told me that even from the outside my home smelled like honey and fresh bread. Too much poetry for chicken wire and plaster, more beauty than it deserved, but I have always appreciated those words, and they have helped to remind me that the things which matter most are not where we so often put our priorities. I found happiness and satisfaction where I couldn’t find pride, and that was better.
This friend with the surprising poetry, who nearly died of a stroke last night, she’s a year younger than I am. Were it not for her quick-acting husband she would never had completed her family holiday and her young children’s fall would have many more changes than just starting school.
She would have made the second friend in two years who died, a year younger than me.
We are not old women.