Creating my instant home took only an instant, and now I needed a life to live in it. I could no longer lie here in bed, patting my head over how brave and wonderful I’d been to set up a home for myself in a new place. But in a fresh swell of pride, I patted my head again anyway. Surrounded by strangeness, I had replayed the lesson I’d learned two decades ago as a new mother: whatever you fed and tended repeatedly became your own—no matter how red and alien it was or how shrill it screamed. So I had filled my new shelves and cupboards and corners, then tended my odd assortment of trinkets and—snap your fingers—I’d created a place I cared about. By now moldy leftovers even resided in my refrigerator, I discovered when I padded out to the kitchen in my nightgown. I peeked inside a plastic dish. In Florida you didn’t just toss food into the trash can; the process of decay began the moment anything left refrigeration, and the process moved fast. Which was the reason, my father claimed, that the residents rarely left air-conditioned homes, cars and shopping malls.
