I never dreamt of buying a house. The white picket fence, the backyard, and the swing under a tree were never part of my dream. I wanted to travel forever, never growing roots, never staying in a place long enough to call it home. Then, I hit the forties and with the big four came the need to own and to settle.
Petra means "rock" in Greek. Then, there is this house in Florida. And when I think of the wacky tiles on the kitchen counter, the wooden floors, the cathedral ceiling, the dated shower, the balcony overlooking the artificial lake, the field next door with the horses and the cows, I want to claim all of it as mine. I want to own that house, not just in my heart, but on paper. That house is my Petra.
Ownership: Legal right to the possession of a thing.
Maybe it's the weather in this Middle Eastern country from where I write that made me nostalgic. Maybe it's looking at the pictures I took of Petra that reminded me of home. Maybe I miss a good glass of moonshine, a plate of mean redneck caviar, and the smoky smell at a Pigfest. Maybe I yearn for a brisk walk around Lake Hollingsworth with my girlfriend, or a gathering of friends under some Tiki bar where more than one secret was uttered. Or, maybe I'm just getting old; too old to still be paying a mortgage.