Reality struggles to find a place in my mind. This makes sense since I imagine myself in my fictional home. It’s a single room, which in reality I’m familiar with, since I spend fifty minutes there, on the couch, several times a week. My writing table faces the windows, and through them, two other familiar sights, Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains, greet me. Reality welcomes imagination with the presence of the writing table. Together, reality and imagination seem to be preparing me for something. Words, or if they exist, pre-words, gather somewhere inside of me. I’m seated at my writing table, or am I on the couch, or in both places at once? In any case, the words childhood homes come to mind, and I’ll see where the following sentences lead me. In reality, or in the reality of my fiction, this room exists in downtown Seattle, near Pike Place Market. I grew up in a neighborhood not far from downtown, in a beautiful home built in the 1920s, with a spectacular view of Puget Sound, where I’m no longer welcome. I’m welcome here, in my mind, and these words help me realize what I’m doing: creating, or recreating, that childhood home and its memories in my mind, where they’ll always be with me.