And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

I've found the home of my dreams. The small, 1948 bungalow is the perfect fit for my baby and me. He has a small room - grass green and sky blue - that looks out over what will be a front yard full of red poppies and daffodils. I have a small room - merlot - that looks out over a backyard full of magenta crepe myrtles and buttery dogwoods. The living area is spacious now that the owners have torn down the dividing wall, and they painted it the warm color of golden sand. A little marble fireplace will toast our toes during the winter months, and the three large windows will allow us to survey our kingdom of old flowers and white picket fence in the spring.

Yes, I must have that, too. Why shouldn't I have the serenity and peace that a white picket fence implies? I have allowed in so many intruders in the past, why shouldn't I say to the world, "This belongs to my child. Do not trample." Why shouldn't I have Queen Anne's lace and morning glories and lavender flax in my own yard? I want this small plot of loveliness to belong to me and to mine.

I will hold my little boy's dimpled hand and walk to the grocery store or to church. We will eat chicken salad sandwiches at the little cafe on Washington Street and then stroll through the shady park up the street. We will walk to the library and check out books about bugs and stars and tomatoes. We will say hello to neighbors who say hello to us in return. We will listen to jazz at the old church that was converted into a community arts center.

Once, I loved the shabbiness of my life and my adventures, but now I find that I am drawn to a placid retreat. I have never been a part of a community. I would like to know what that feels like.