Sheets of Egyptian Cotton

I'm staring at the bulletin board over my bed, amazed to find the sequence of events that are displayed, like a time capsule saving up memories. There is a photograph of Tim and me standing together, taken when his hair was long and I was only fifteen. Underneath that is an envelope he painted for me while I was still in school: a big red sun with Good morning sunshine painted in green letters across the blue sky. There is the black and white wedding invitation I designed in the shape of an adriatic lily, two gold butterflies stenciled on pale green cardstock, and a post-it that says Sheets of Egyptian cotton: a gift. There is the sand dollar my grandmother gave me one Christmas, tickets to a play, magazine clippings, a post-script about sleep, and a poem that says Some mornings I don't want to get out of my bed, not because I feel bad but because I feel good. See, this is more than just a bed, it's a destination. And finally there is a picture of Isaac, one month old, wrapped in a receiving blanket and lying on my red quilt.

I can honestly say I never thought I would be married at nineteen, or that I would have a child at twenty-one, or that I would be living in South Carolina at all. I thought at twenty-one I would be living with Stephanie in an artsy apartment somewhere, working and being creative. Either that or I would be touring with the band, or graduating from a university with something more than an Associates, or travelling overseas. People always told me to focus on one thing and I ignored them, which explains why I have spent the last two years exploring art and writing and music, taking solitary classes in topics that interested me, changing jobs frequently, and spending time in coffeehouses with Tim. Sometimes I think I haven't accomplished much of anything, but then it occurs to me how happy I am to have things the way they are. I like my blank spaces on the calendar, empty squares waiting to be filled. I like decorating my house and thinking of it as our personal fort, I like roadtrips and wandering through small towns, I like waiting for Tim to come home so we can make up the rest of the day as we go along, and I like having Isaac.

I have finally progressed from feeling awkward because I didn't finish school, to knowing I wouldn't change things if I could. And someday, maybe, I'll open my coffeehouse and sell my art and belong in a small community where my customers are familiar, the kind of people who visit regularly and say the same things every time. A place where I can be entirely myself, inside-out tie-die tunic and long hair and bare feet every day. A place where people will stop asking me if I have a degree and why don't I have a career and why do I keep trying to do so many different things at once.

But for now, while they ask what I've been doing with myself, I will continue to give them the same response: just . . . things. Of course, in the back of my head I'll be thinking: I'm waking Isaac up in the morning and watching him stretch, the way his back arches and his little fists go up over his head. I'm exercising and making scrapbooks and keeping a journal. I'm washing my bedding because Isaac spit up on it all morning. I'm cleaning my house. I'm painting. They're simple things, things often left unsaid because people tend to smile and nod in response, not knowing what to do with my simple life. I suppose it's only a place to begin.