It doesn’t feel like home. The landlord has been in and stained the floors. I don’t know it, as I did. There is an alien feel to it. I know that this is nonsense, histrionic, even. But there it is. I need to get used to it again, with all its new stickiness. He says he feels the same. We’ve been away, on and off, for almost a month. We are creatures of habit and we’ve been knocked off course. It will start to return, that normality we expect from life, though for others there is no such thing. These are little things, minor irritations, and the landlord meant well. I acquiesce to the imperfection of it all. I promise.
