Highway plants shake their proverbial middle fingers at our shameless faces as we struggle to stay in homes we so painstakingly designed—
from those salmon (not pink!) curtains to the perfectly fluffy cushions; from the IKEA dinner table with matching cutlery and crockery to the “essential” side stool even though no one’s used it since we’d bum-tested it at the store—the store that sells so much crap that’d become food for our oceans’ fish anyway—
to spend more time in light airy rooms, reading a book, perhaps, or knitting that scarf we’d promised grandma two Christmases ago;
to cook more healthy meals using the all-new, matte-finished stovetop, complete with touch-sense technology and auto-off functionality ideal for forgetful and amateur cooks;
to share a drink with our spouse in the middle of the day, with feet propped up on the luscious leather couch we spent an extra couple hundred to customise with flowers to complement the wall colour, discussing finances and school shopping, and having healthy arguments about whether to buy local, organic produce or help international trade and developing nations by sourcing from less-fortunate economies;
to relax, after hassling all day at work, on the bright yellow bathtub we’d installed, trying out a new herbal bath salt our slightly whimsical friend had told us about;
to fishing out the almost-dried out fabric paint from the shed and finish painting the cushion covers we’d meant, engaging the kids, as a nice family activity;
to fix up the wheel-less mountain bike our old housemate had abandoned in their moving rush;
to finally doing all the things we’d always dreamt of doing if only we had the time.
Well, now we do.
And we can let the world heal.