"I could live in a tent down at Cosy Corner."
By the sea, near the island, watch seabirds plumbline from sky to bait flushed up by bonito. Day by day. Write stories.
"I could live in a cave."
Stroking stone every night. The fireplace smoke swirling around and darkening the granite.
I could live anywhere. But I have the Bobcat. The dog. Oh, and my child standing on the verge and looking toward his life as an adult across the road, ready to step out in a break between traffic.
So maybe I can't feral out down at Cosy Corner just yet. The thing is, I've been so comfortable and happy where I have been living and now it's on the market and the positive offers are flooding in and I have to find somewhere else to live. To live. When I don't actually have a wage to speak of. Or a partner swinging in their public service safety net. I've written two books here. My family are here. I grew up here. I was philosophical about all this, until the real estate agent banged in the 'for sale' sign with a ringing of her gimpy hammer on star pickets the other day.