Seven years ago today, I bought a townhouse I still live in. It’s been a place to lay my head, watch TV (mainly hockey), read, and think. It’s not perfect. It’s not well-kept. It’s mine, though.
If I live here another ten months, I’ll have lived in that house longer than anywhere else; the current title-holder is a two-story in a 1970s-era subdivision in a little place called Beavercreek, Ohio. If I make it to mid-August, I’ll have called the metropolitan Huntsville area home for fifteen years; this is the longest I’ve lived anywhere in my entire life. If I somehow make it to 2015, I’ll have lived half my life in Huntsville, but I hope to not be in this house by then, for I hope to be married (yes, finally) and have sold my house. I want to have the next house be “our house”. This is “my house” for as long as I can stay here.
Needless to say, the unsettled state of my last two years has all of this in doubt. There are some glimmers of hope to stay here, and I work every day to remain a Huntsvillian. I am not guaranteed this, though, and so I wanted to write of my little mile marker today. In a period of extreme uneasiness, it’s a welcome sight every time I pull in the driveway.