Your elbows know the spot

Your elbows know one spot at home by heart. A balcony rail. A patch of pavement by the door. The one window that opens all the way. You didn't pick it. You were sent there. Same lean, same few minutes, again and again, on a schedule that was never yours. It wasn't a place. It was a post.

The cigarette squatted in that spot and never paid a cent of rent. Then you stopped reporting for duty. Nobody made a speech. The squatter's claim just lapsed. The view you stared straight past is still out there, waiting to be seen. That spot is open ground now, and ground goes to whoever shows up.

You take a home back by giving each spot a new job. Your feet may still carry you there on autopilot. Fine. Let them arrive and find something better waiting. An old routine starves in a spot that's busy with a new one. God is handing this home back to you one corner at a time. You get to decide what each one is for.

Start with the spot that pulled hardest. Today, put one thing there that belongs to the life you're building. A chair you like. A plant that needs you. A book with a folded page. Sit there once before bed and take in whatever's in front of you. That spot used to send for you. Now it waits for you.