Hollow

Don't get me wrong. I like my village and my house but every time I return to my house after a long time away its like I don't know the place. That split second after I open the door and flip the light switch, things are strange. The house has a smell. Not a bad one, but an unfamiliar one. I notice what a strange assortment of furniture I have, how the living room set looks like a Cosby sweater. Although I have more than enough furniture (a sofa, love seat, overstuffed chair, coffee table, desk and chair, book case complete with potted basil plant atop it, a large charcoal sketch on the wall) it feels hollow and I wonder if I need more furniture. I mull over in my mind; do I need a mini-rose bush to put by the desk? Is that what's missing? In a millisecond I am attacked by the Ikea nesting complex.
I dump my bags, coddle my ginger tabby cat, check the fuse box and re-duct tape the main switch up because its surely fallen down during my absence. I check the fridge to see if any food has spoiled during the electricity's hiatus. There's charm in the fact that I have all amenities, (running water, electricity, a water heater) and none of them work unless you know the trick-- how to duct tape it or jiggle it, cajole it into commission. I check my garden. Flowers always bloom in my absence. I greet my neighbors and thank them for watering while I was away and then the house is mine again. I promptly forget the hollowness until something bangs against my reality again, and I hear the empty boom.