I’m writing this from a white twin bed in a soft, airy room with a butterfly mobile, lilac and lime green walls, lamps edged in ribbon, a ceiling fan, and framed canvases of little loopy flowers. I feel about eight years old: safe, cared about and for, and a little sleepy in that wonderful pre-nap way.
How did I get here? Well, first I had to bail on the townhouse I was supposed to move into after contractors found mold growing inside the walls. Then I had to scramble to get all my furniture out of my current rental and into my would-be landlord’s garage; and, the next day, from the garage to a storage unit.