The Moment
Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

It's the truth when I say I have never owned a piece of real estate. There was a short time in Alberta when we were new home owners. Not really, because the bank loaned us the money to buy it so I don't think that counted. For many years, in my mind, having and owning your own home seemed the ultimate goal. Everyone who could did, and those who couldn't dreamed and yearned. I'm sixty years old and I'm content that I don't own a house. In fact, I don't own much at all. And yet, I've never felt richer and more blessed.