A leveling life

Where I live is crooked. My bedroom floor is slanted and if you place a marble down, watch it roll away. To keep it balanced, my bed is propped up on four books of varying widths and the windows are lopsided too. When I lay in the bath I am compelled to tilt my head so I can feel as if the tub isn't on a slope. One side of my refrigerator stands on a wooden chip and so does my stove. My kitchen cabinets, though tightly secure, look as if they're about to fall.

The water pressure in my shower is weak and sometimes tiles pop out without warning. Across the way lives a crazy family that shouts at one other from morning till night, then suddenly appears to be away on holiday for days on end.

In April I am moving down the street to a place with a big kitchen, a claw-foot tub and leveled floors, and I cannot wait to be there. But tonight, as I sit listening to music in the misshapen rooms I have called home for the past year and a half, I am reminded of what I will leave behind.

I have spent countless hours sitting on these slanted floors, staring at these crooked walls, and discovering a woman who, following a straight line, I finally began to recognize as me.