My Tiny House

I can see my entire house from my writing chair: living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom door—all 485 square feet of home.

The white glass front cabinets belie my Virgo organizational skills. Nowhere to hide the burgeoning contents stacked, crammed for all to see.

Rolls of paper towels and hat boxes teeter on top of the cupboards signaling an overflow of commodities. Surely there are hatboxes on top of everyone’s kitchen cabinets.

In a town of seven thousand, in the mountains of Allegany, in a house on Seventh Street, in a family of seven, a lady of polish, a Catholic Women’s college graduate, my mother was a woman with a closet full of hat boxes.

My friends loved to come over and try on the assortment. We’d giggle as a plume would tickle our cheek, preen in front of the mirror with the Easter finery, imagine ourselves strutting down the runway in our elbow-length leather gloves.

“Better not be making fun of my hats,” she’d warn from upstairs.

In my manufactured home, I pull out the step stool, reach up and take one down. There are no hats in my hat boxes. They hold photos, mementos, relics of a compact existence—few wants, fewer needs.

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