It’s morning.

Yesterday they delivered my new bookshelf and I assembled it using an unreliable and irritating phillips head screwdriver I found in the evidence room.  I need to bring my own tool box into the office.

Anyhoo, I got the thing assembled.  It took less than half an hour and I happily placed it next to my filing cabinet and underneath the 67″ monitor I have hanging on the wall.

Today, I filled it partially with books. (Law books, as all law students know, are magically printed on super-thin delicate pages that somehow manage to weigh 47 tons each, resulting in hunchbacked lawyers across the nation.)  I carried in nearly a shelf full and happily arranged them.

Then I settled in with my cup of hot coffee and looked around my office.

Mine.

My space, with my door, that I can shut.

My chair.

My desk.

My books.

The high corner office hidden away from everyone else was hated by every other person it was given to. My boss had it, our ex-partner had it. Every single person despised being so far away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the office.

I revel in the ability to shut a door and work in silence.  I read contracts and develop websites and research with no one walking past me, asking me questions, breaking my flow.  I sit in my isolation chamber with my hot coffee surrounded by pictures of prairie dogs, my kids, Dan, and me snuggling tigers. I relax, I sink in, I smile.

I am at home.