I worked out my anger with a hand-tiller on a 10x20 plot of land. I bought a couch, and I sat on it and stared out the front windows while I healed from the open wounds of my recent divorce. I tore the shrubs out in front of those windows and planted seeds that grew into flowers. I weathered the storm of an on-again, off-again, on-again, off-again, on-again, finally-off-for-good relationship by baking breads and pies and cakes in my small, mustard-colored galley kitchen.
That house was my independence. I picked it and paid for it. I met the neighbors, painted the walls, threw birthday parties and hosted Christmas. I cried a lot in that house. Healing tears I suppose.
On the weekends when Ellie was with her dad the dog and I would sit and stare at each other. I’d get bored and start a project, and she’d follow me around the house.
The projects are done now. Today is closing day, and that little house belongs to someone else. It's funny how attached we become to wood, glass and dirt.