On Home Sweet Home

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HouseCemetary

The rooms never really felt like mine. They were full of furniture bought because normal people started their normal lives with a dining room set, a bedroom set, a dinette set, a living room set, and a breakfront heavy with silver gifts that shouted. Bookcases full of holy books, for holy people, living holy lives.

Of course I knew that before I changed anything, it was best to ask Sister or Mother. I knew that that I had always hung the pictures in the wrong places, for the wrong reasons, on the wrong walls, that I had always shown them to the wrong people.

I knew that I didn’t know how to decorate, pick paint or arrange flowers, and that I couldn’t do the laundry without leaving stains on the clothes. I knew that I always set the table with the wrong fork on the wrong side, that I couldn’t be trusted to put the rug straight and even, that I never remembered to dust the tops of the bookcases.

Of course I knew all this, I’m not stupid, you know.

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