A bought our home before he met me. I still remember the afternoon during our first summer when he proudly showed me a picture of his solo chair and his huge TV, eyes bright with his ownership of his very own place. In rapid succession my mind thought two things. The first: geeeze louizzze that’s a huuuuge TV he must be rolling in cash money *slow whistle*. (I don’t think I had ever seen a TV that big in a house before. We still had an 18 inch one at my house.) The second: a room of windows. How lovely.
I thought only two thoughts because I was arrested by the beauty of the sunlight in that image. It streamed lazily through the blinds in dreamy patterns, passing the stray dust mote to settle in fuzzy order across the floor.
The sunroom was the only room A had painted in the house until our paint frenzy around Christmas time. I believe this indicates A’s great appreciation for light and a love for the outdoors, though then it was perhaps only when he viewed it through a pane. Clashing with my theory, it was the room he utilized the least. His friends often call him out on this point. “So how many times have you used that sunroom?” is a frequent rib amongst prop comedy and “small” jokes.
As we grew closer, A began to set me up in the sunroom with study materials or magazines or any other thing. He wanted it to be my safe place. It’s taken two years for it to become so. Before we were married, I always felt like a visitor to A’s home. Six months into being married, I still didn’t have it down pat; when I wanted “safety” or “home” I’d default to boomer and the great outdoors. We’re eleven months in now, meaning for eleven months I’ve officially called this cozy condo across from the chicken place my home. Today, it really felt like it. My little cave of a sunroom in my little home with my little pup and a big huge grand blessed love.