On a whim, I returned home and decorated my childhood room. I added heaps of pillows, pots of plants. I dusted an old leafy rug to place beneath the cherrygloss side table. I added decorative books, vases, flowers. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to decorate a bed I no longer sleep on – a house I no longer reside in – but I was pleased with myself afterwards. Most days, I feel like a small bird, perpetually nesting, perpetually tossing out old coins for new feathers, dead twigs for soft moss.