A Place to Call My Own

Sometimes I wish I had a place to call my own...
A place where I wouldn't have to worry about coming home from work in a bad mood and having to pretend I'm happy.
A place where I can leave my stuff in the dryer as long as I want without having to take it out or someone take it out for me and completely wrinkle it all.
A place where the kitchen would be clean all the time, and if it were messy it would be my mess and I know I would clean it up.
A place where I could have people over when I wanted them there and kick them out when I felt like being a hermit.
A place where I could unashamedly play my Spanish music loud and not get funny looks from anyone.
A place where I could cook whatever I want and not get funny looks from anyone.
A place where I could fall asleep on the couch and not care if anyone was going to walk in and see me.
A place where more than my bed would be untouched by anyone else.
A place where I could put whatever I wanted on the walls and table, displaying where I came from and who I am.
A place to call my very own.

But I don't have a place to call my very own. I share a place with 4 other precious women, and though sometimes I need a vacation, I wouldn't replace any of them with anyone. And I wouldn't trade my years with them for years of sheer and utter loneliness. I wouldn't trade the fun late-night silliness for more sleep. I wouldn't trade the admonition and advice for no one to talk to.