Vignette

My apartment is really the second floor of a thin, long house. We have a lovely picture window in the front and plenty of windows elsewhere. On autumn days of bright colors and falling leaves, when I'm at the kitchen table writing a paper or on the couch reading the newspaper, I feel like I'm sitting on my perch in a bird's nest. On snowy days of late, with my tiny Christmas tree and cup of cider, I feel like the apartment is a snowglobe (albeit a boring one, no dancing bears or anything).

I like it. I feel safe and snug. Though I also feel like a very tiny creature within a giant's plaything, like the cat's collar from Men in Black. There may be a large and curious eye peering at me right now, calling over other large eyes when I shower or stub my toe. I don't mind; maybe that means I'd be successful on a reality show. When I leave the apartment, though, I will no longer be in the giant's realm, because whatever his little microcosm container is, it only contains the second floor of this building. Now I've gotten carried away with myself.