I bought a Billie Holiday album in the months before I moved away from home and into my first apartment. I listened to it over and over and daydreamed about hearing it in my future home. I can still see the home I dreamed up for myself, it was an anonymous 80’s apartment with wall to wall cream colored carpeting and a bar built into the kitchen that overlooked the dining area.
It would be empty since I didn’t have any furniture and I would play the CD on the little tinny CD player I had. Maybe I would invite my boyfriend over and make him breakfast in the morning and we would be young but all grown up together.
This daydream never came true. Instead I broke things off with the boy for good and moved into an old Victorian with a wildish girl I knew who was always dying her hair and doing drugs and generally having a very good time. She became my best friend and years later we moved first to San Francisco and then to LA together.
The strangest thing is that although the apartment I created in my head never actually existed every time I hear Billie Holiday I picture it still. And when that happens a calm, peaceful feeling overcomes me, a quiet joy for an imaginary anonymous room of my own and an unwritten future full of lazy Sunday mornings.