The house in my head

There is a little house, a tiny house, with a big wicker chair on its little porch. Baskets of geraniums sway in the breeze. Inside the door there is another chair, this one overstuffed with books piled on its ottoman. In the winter, a small, round woodstove makes it cozy. The desk is large, empty, and inspiring.

This house sits in my back yard looking beautiful, inviting... and mine.

But not real.

This house has been in my head for many years. It is my "room of one's own," which Virginia Woolf tells me I must have. For me it symbolizes freedom, peace, and my dream of being a Writer.

My husband has been promising me for years that one day he would build me my little writing house. But now he doesn't have to...

In the back yard of the house we purchased a year ago is a two-story building. It used to be a small apartment but city zoning does not allow it to be rented. This loss of family income is my personal gain. Although it is far from the quaint, geranium-festooned cabin in my head, it is an empty space - a place to write in peace and order, where things stay put and not one stray pink sock is to be seen (I can dream, right?).

This weekend has been deemed Operation Mamaneedsaroom. The camping, skiing, and Christmas supplies will be carried to the second floor, the carpet cleaned, curtains hung, desk and books moved in, and pictures hung on the walls. My desk. My books. My pictures. My room.

Then the children and husband will be locked out.

Edited to say: Hubby's at Home Depot right now buying the new door lock with which he himself will be locked out. Makes my heart sing!