Where I Rest

For the past five months, and going into my sixth, I’ve been a squatter, in the non-illegal sense that is. Me, along with three others. We’ve taken over the care and habitation of a house whose owners only use it six months out of the year. In Wrangell, and probably elsewhere, they’re called snowbirds – those who flee during the harder, colder months. Although, Wrangell – at least while I’ve been here – never ever properly heats up.

The four of us live and sleep and eat and bathe in rooms that are pre-furnished, pre-characterized. With only a few items out to call our own – what’s the use in unpacking too much, moving the established furniture around too much, when we’re going to have to repack so soon – we’ve somehow made a spot for ourselves, a dwelling, in someone else’s home.

There are a few amazing things about the arrangement – the obvious being no rent, just utilities; the wood stove that has used up more cords of wood then we originally anticipated; the constant company – I haven’t had a roommate, let alone three, since freshman year in college. But the best feature of all is that in this house that I’ve been living in for the past five months, when I go to bed, my head rests by a wall, and on the other side of this wall, maybe 10 yards away, is the ocean. So when I fall asleep and when I wake up in the middle of the night and fall back asleep, I hear the ocean. I do. I hear the ocean lapping against the shore, the tide retreating, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to be a squatter.