Growing up, my mom taught me to never own any more than would fit in the car. This was back when we measured our life in toothpaste tubes: we had lived in such-and-such town for two toothpaste tubes; in another, for only half a tube.
It strikes me this morning how much I’ve failed. Between old typewriters and tea kettles, books and plants, gumball machines and lamps–sometimes I don’t even know if I can fit it all in my home! Maybe this is what it means to settle in, settle down. It’s not nearly as frightening (or dull or tedious) as I imagined it would be.
I roll the word on my tongue: settle. It makes me think of the sound that hangs in the air of an empty room just after the phone stops ringing; of bulbs planted in the fall; of down feathers and dreams half-remembered and turning the pillow in the middle of the night to find the cool side.