There’s something about swinging open the door of Apartment 22:
The doorknob clanks against the paper thin wall
The floorboards scream at every footstep
The crooked blinds hang with peep holes where plastic used to live.

A couch. A TV. And a lamp, some storage, a chair, and a rug.
The five hundred square feet seemed easy to fill but is still half-empty,
All in the name of independence –
I wanted to pay for every piece.

Each hour I spent alone building furniture
Represented another ounce of love
For the woman that I was becoming.

The confidence that swells
While looking out those three windows
At the seasons of New England
Is the “thank you” note I wrote to myself
For getting through it.

It’s my daily reminder
“You did it”
It’s my own affirmations
Summed up in one view of gratitude.

Maybe that’s what it is about Apartment 22.
It’s got one hell of a view.