My house is magical. I open my eyes in the morning to sky-scraping trees and more often than not, pearls of rain on the window pain above. My mood is instantly lifted. When I finally get the spirit to roll out of bed, I land on hard wood floors that are worn just enough to make it feel like home. By the time my feet have sent a cold rush to my body, I am looking over my shoulder through the door-long window to judge how bad the weather is. I’ve come to hope for rain so the temperature doesn’t drop below freezing. Freezing weather never leads to anything good — the Californian living in Oregon knows that better than anyone.
As I walk into our bathroom, I typically cringe at the reflection of my hair in the mirror. I guess I wasn’t blessed like the nonchalant women in movies who wake up with beautiful bouncy hair ready to be featured in a Revlon commercial. I’m frequently tempted to draw a bath in my claw-foot bath tub and decide instead to take one after a long day. Of course that rarely happens. Having a fancy bath tub is like finally convincing your parents to buy a trampoline when your a kid. The first month, that trampoline is used more than a single woman uses a vibrator. But before long, it’s old news. Lucky for me, my bath tub keeps its allure and for one moment every day, I remind myself that everyone deserves a little relaxation.
Once I handle my bathroom business, I walk up a few steps and am greeted by arched ceilings and windows of trees all around. The pale yellow paint on the walls eagerly welcomes in the sliver of sun that the clouds let through. I stop and usually pause a moment, reminding myself that the walls surrounding me are mine. I’m filled with pride and instantly think of my mother. Owning a home has not only allowed me to accomplish one of many goals in life, but I have also fulfilled one of my mother’s that she never got around to.
If I managed to wake up to the alarm on my phone, I’m in a rush to get my daily workout session out of the way before Norah blesses me with her first smile of the day. I walk through the dimmed kitchen up a few more stairs and peer through french doors. The doors paint a beautiful picture of bamboo stretching just above a sea of fog. I admire the chandelier above with hues of autumn color. If I’m lucky, the stained glass window etched into the east wall of the living room reflects onto the wall opposite it. It’s not uncommon for me to take a quick photo — a possible Instagrammer.
After my morning pump (yes, I’m grinning), I no doubt have coffee on the brain. I rush down the stairs into the kitchen and hear a door scrape open up stairs. I look up to vaulted ceilings and Saeed looking down. “You want some coffee,” I ask. “Already made it,” he replies. I smile and grab a cup.