Last night I dreamt my sister and I were back in the house where we lived during my high school and college years. I don't remember the circumstances, only the overwhelming feeling of "home" and "safety" that it elicited. I remember standing in my bedroom, running a finger down the blinds, watching the afternoon sun stream in. It was a little slice of heaven.
That poor bedroom received more coats of paint that I can count over the years. Sadly, I don't have photos from all its iterations. I think the blue phase was my favorite, even though it never was the exact blue I'd envisioned. I also forever regretted my choice of carpet when we first moved in because it never went with anything; a brown, white, and black shag that my father reluctantly agreed to on the condition there would be no more "girly" colors (lemon yellow, lime green—hey, it was the late 60s and early 70s!) like I'd had in my bedroom in our previous home.
My mom, being an interior decorator, indulged my nervous color twitching and I think on some level encouraged it.
I've dreamt of that house more often than usual over the past few years, and I'm starting to think that while my last apartment in Phoenix may be my current conscious mental "happy place" where I go to de-stress and cocoon, that house on Solano Drive North may in fact be my real, subconscious place of refuge.
Are those the same micro units I own?
Oh lord no. Those were sold back in '81.