Today's appointment was for the annual home inspection. The pest control tech needed to go around to the backyard, and from there access the crawl space to check for signs of moisture or rot: perforations in beams, debris shaped like sawdust pellets but are actually termite feces. Earth smells are sharp there, especally after humid rain, though the flap of one gridded vent allows the cross-flow of air. Thankfully, there was nothing to warrant treatment. O home ownership, questionable linchpin of the American Dream: ideal of domestic space, 3BR /2BT plus driveway or garage. Jacaranda spills over the privacy fence for a picture-perfect kitchen view (though apron -sized). The realtor matched his language to your desire, then all made alterations for some happy medium. A decade later, your 1500 square feet is a nest packed full of matter—perhaps a natural tendency to optimize, to shore up for the years that march in, wearing the shape of emaciated cows. Your heart yearns sometimes for the pre-inhabited look of these rooms. Bare floors, unadorned walls, the quirky, sloped ceiling over the reading nook before every corner spilled over with books. But small is mostly a state of mind and any idea of your deprivation unfounded, when so many walk threadbare through the world. Upstairs, you sort socks and underwear neatly into drawers. Cupboards hold various vessels and the weathervane turns, obedient to the wind. You decide to just heap the fallen leaves around the base of trees instead of raking, and lounge in an XL sweat- shirt and yoga pants when all that feels broken wells up in your chest. When your spirit is zapped, you stop to rest.