Borrowed Space

What do I own?
This home, this piece of property?
Dare I call this all mine?
It feels like borrowed space—a place to live, love, and care for while I'm here.

How I can call this place mine when in my heart, I know it belongs to
the earth,
the sky,
the wind.
The bank.

I've placed all of my furniture inside.
I clean, mow the lawn,
and patch things back together when they break.

Behind the closed doors of this borrowed space, I live with
the dog,
the cats,
photo albums filled with memories,
blankets, and pillows that soften hard places; I feel at home amongst my treasures,
and I walk around as if I own the place.

How many people before me thought this was all theirs too?
Ten other times this space was bought, sold, traded, passed along.
The walls scraped and painted new colors, and they too probably
walked around as if they owned the place.

Sometimes, I am jealous of people whose families have lived on the same property for generations.
The rocks they've dug,
the dogs they've buried all settled beneath their feet.
Do they feel connected to their property in a way I will never know?
Do they feel like they own it?
Or maybe it owns them?

On the kitchen counter, an envelope from the bank reminds me to
pay for all this that I call home, and still,
I continue to walk around here as if I own the place.