Fitting.

Belonging is an odd thing.

After so many weeks in a series of bags, it was so easy to unload my backpacking pack, my book bag, my shoulder bag and banjo case. To hang my clothes on hangers. To set the new tea kettle on the stove. To line my boots up. To return the skull to the banjulele case. To squeeze my multiplied books into the bookcase. To tuck my toothbrush into the medicine cabinet. To stack the bars and boxes of chocolate in their spot on the corner of the table. And to slip between my sheets, to melt into my own mattress under my own quilts.

After all the peculiar spaces I've fit into these weeks, it feels delicious to find places for things.