4.8.22 & 5.12.22

You know how much safety means to me.

My tiny home came together after 4 years of work. Late nights and early mornings spent redoing the roof, setting the windows, building the interior. Propane heaters propped up as it snowed and rained outside, all while I drilled holes for electrical with shaking, bleeding hands. Clothes left abandoned by the front door during hot summer afternoons, sweat soaking my bra and underwear as I hammered nails into the loft after running out of screws. 

I built this home and filled it with nicked fingers and pinched nerves and tears and sorrow and victory. I built this home with locks and keys and walls to keep me safe. I built this home for me, and me alone. 

The bathroom ceiling is lower than standard, dropped to allow just enough room for me to move comfortably, but forcing those taller than me to hunch. The stairs are built for my gait, for my height, easy for me to climb and not so for many others. The couch is built for me, a single person, with just enough room for me to lay down in it and sleep, should a nap catch my fancy. 

I designed this abode from day one to spend time in it alone, to settle in this space of safety without interruption. I gave a key to no one, and I invited in no one for over a year. 

My door does not open to many. It does not unlatch for all but a few. After a lifetime afraid, I will not welcome that terror into my shelter. It protects me from all those I do not feel safe around. It gives me a place to be myself, openly, honestly, queerly.

And you know I feel safe with you. 

It is always a risk when I invite someone new into my dwelling. It offers the opportunity for discomfort, it opens up a space for someone to make the home I built uncomfortable for a fleeting moment. I am calculated on who is granted room, who can knock on the wood frame and be welcomed in. The list is short and updated by the hour.

I invited you over for sake after a few too many myself. I needed the liquid bravery. And you said yes. 

That was our first night together, sleeping in the same bed. That was the first time I felt your warmth so closely, smelled the forest on your skin. I remember how my heart raced. I remember how it felt to wake next to you when morning slipped through the windows. 

I did not feel afraid of you. I did not feel discomfort. I felt calm. I felt seen.

My door opened itself to you a second time, offering you dinner and another night in my bed. You kissed me where I had never been kissed before. You smiled at me when I lost my breath. You held me to your chest and kept me warm as winter’s night lingered.

A sense of fierce protectiveness rests upon my shoulders when my house is involved. Intense guarding, a violent vigilance that looks for slights, that analyzes my emotions, that prepares a lock to shut offenders out. This beast of anger and defensive observation ignores you, it rests when you arrive, sits outside the door and lets you pass without so much as a glance. It has deemed you unthreatening. It has deemed you safe.

So… I made you a key.

In the years building my home, never once did I consider making a key for someone else. The thought never crossed my mind, never even approached as an option for my future. I wielded the only key, and any spares would be made for the unlikely scenario of losing my main one, hidden away somewhere it would not be found by any other. When I put up my door and screwed it into place, I locked it for the first time, and would always lock it when I left. Even while building it, while hauling wood inside, when loading spools of electrical wire into the interior, when grasping the windows to set them proper – it always came with the need to unlock the front door first. Even before my haven reached the status of “livable,” I would not allow those uninvited to enter. The door stayed locked.

No one else has one.

The machine whistled and screeched, metal shaping metal, copies of your house key crafted upon your request. I watched the work a moment and thought nothing of it, figured you were like me and needed to hide a key somewhere outside your home to ensure you always had a way in. Upon parking in front of your cottage, you pulled one out of its plastic bag, and offered it to me. 

I took it without a word, my thoughts awash with overwhelming emotions. You offered me a key. You gave me a way to enter your shelter. You trusted me.

You felt safe with me.

Just you.

I stood in front of the desk. The overhead lights flickered and buzzed above me, casting unflattering shadows across my face. I looked at the keychain in my hand. I thought of you. I pulled my house keys off the chain and set them on the counter. The worker asked how many copies. I told him one of each. When he handed them to me in a bag a few minutes later, they felt warm. My fingers curled around them. I looked up, towards the checkout. 

We were doing this. We were letting you in.

I love you.