It’s almost my house

There’s a breeze that blows through the compound and the house almost constantly. The walls are bluey-green; the curtains blue, the chairs green. The loo is a comfy cocoon – no one can hear me when I go. I get performance anxiety if I think I am not alone, you see.
It is far from complete, yet it is finished in many ways. I have not been here a week, but it already feels like home. If home is where the heart is, then I carry my home-ability with me anyway.
I can already see where the Christmas tree will go, even if I have no idea about the curtains.
As I idly wash some tea cups, I look out the kitchen window and see a piece of my past and a sign for my future. There is a jambula tree in the back yard. Purply and brown and bright green and speaking, nay, singing to my soul.
This will be my house, and we will live here.
Dedz:
It’s my House – Diana Ross (what else, really?)