Our stuff is here.
Our stuff is here.
Our stuff is here.

It seems stupid, or trite, or selfish. It might look like I’m ignoring the chaos happening around the world (I’m not). It seems like a minor thing. Stuff is just stuff.

But. This morning he made coffee using the same machine he used in Sydney, when we were first together, when I had to fly up to see him every other weekend. Back then, he’d make me coffee still naked, while I watched in awe from his bed – wondering how I’d gotten there, gotten so lucky. I’d watch him while trying to work out how such an intense connection with another human was even possible.

This morning, we ate breakfast out of ceramic bowls that we purchased together in Canada. In a few minutes, I’ll be able to put on clothes that have been sitting in boxes for 4 months.

Music is playing from a stereo system that is older than our relationship. It sounds like us, holding hands at Rainbow Serpent Festival in 2012, watching our friend dance under the lasers, lost in the music – on the verge of losing ourselves in each other for the first time but not knowing it yet.

This house is filled with our things. Some new, some old. But they’re our things. We’ve settled on another island – the lifestyle is too good to pass up. The space, the stuff inside the space: for now, it’s ours. And that means more than I thought it ever would. Stuff is just stuff, but it’s our stuff.

This coffee is the best coffee I’ve had in years.