I curl up in my favorite chair, glancing around my small house: floor-to-ceiling books in nearly every room, several windows flooded with morning Irish sunlight. A concert grand crouched in a corner, taking a breather after a good three-hour practice.
After graduating college, I’d started small. I collected some small pieces I’d written in high school and college, in the hopes of getting them published. A few weeks after publication, it hit the New York Times Bestsellers List. Not Number 1, mind you, but I didn’t care.
I continued to keep in touch with my friends as I traveled around, performed piano here & there (literally), & wrote.
I set aside my cup of hot chocolate, streaching. I toy with the thought of going to the town library. I’d some stuff to return anyway.
I throw on a coat & hat and make for the door. Just before locking up, I turn back to my cozy home. I nod to myself in satisfaction.
I’m not the richest or most famous person in the world, by no means. But I’m perfectly content right here.