I live in a small cottage by the sea. A washashore, two years now, on loan from the cold water Pacific, I pray this bay remains kind. I have more windows than rooms, more books than shoes, more teacups, mismatched and chipped, than hours in the day, and a sea, a few steps from my door, that rises twice daily to greet me. I live in a small cottage with freshly painted shutters that rattle with each passing storm; doors so imposing, a strong shoulder nudge is required to close them. It’s drafty in the winter and a little too warm in the summer, and is surrounded by neighbors who bring wine to your door, invite you for French macarons on the porch, and leave their side doors unlatched so anyone who wants to can take or trade handful of berries, tomatoes, and a drizzle of local honey from pantries. I live in a small cottage, built in the year 1800, that neither stands out nor blends in, but swells to twice its size with laughter and art. My family lives here. My name is written here. It is home.