Just being at home is a luxury. The small joy of collapsing into the beanbag and watching the Daily Show. Seeing the sun rise over City Hall.

More than that though. I can drive my own car. I can wear jeans all week. I can make plans knowing I can dig files and information out of the bottom of the cabinet at short notice. I can go out on Friday nights.

But it's the small things that matter most. When I was first finding my feet, I would come home to bad milk, stale bread and cold coffee with mold growing in it. I got the hang of it. Soon the house was piled with small cardboard boxes; the disposable product of disposable meals.

I cooked my own dinner last night. I made bread. It was still warm this morning.

I stopped at Safeways and bought perishable food. Plums. Avocados. Real, honest to god grapefruit juice. Just the sheer act of wandering the food court was a luxury.

There's eggs in the fridge, and dishes in the sink. There are crumbs on the countertop.

There are flowers in a vase on the kitchen table.