I sit contentedly on my red couch occasionally glancing out the wall of windows at the white, white landscape of my front yard, NPR's Morning Edition playing on the black, old-fashioned, bake-a-lite radio with dials, non-digital numbered face and an antenna. It is Christmas Eve day and I slept late while the world transformed into a winter wonderland. The coffee is steeping in the French press and in a moment I will put my laptop on the coffee table, going to the kitchen and plunge the grounds, then add my organic, un-homogenized half 'n' half and dehydrated cane sugar and take my first sip of dark-brown liquid heaven.

I'll be going into work for a few hours to catch up on paperwork and tonight my son, Toby, and I will see Avatar, then I will drop him off at his girlfriend's house where he will celebrate Christmas. I will be working Friday and Saturday for a co worker with young children. Keith is in Wausau, spending Christmas with his family.

Keith called this morning, as he always does, and while I'm content to be here, alone with my radio and computer, he chafes at the bit, wanting to be here with me. It's been a whirl-wind romance; we've spent every weekend together since we met and it's been good. Good learning how to maneuver around each other in the kitchen as we cook together; good to have a companion to go out to see live music and movies with; good to paint the walls in the living room and rehang my masks and various pieces of original art; good to sleep in the queen-sized bed we bought together; good to have him here—waiting for me—when I get home from work. It's good to have my house feel like a home instead of a large hotel room: empty and slightly unkempt with dust-bunnies in the corners and hair in the sink, as if the maid called in sick.

He will be moving here permanently the first of the year. On January 7th we will go to Guatemala for ten days: our first big adventure together.

My family gathered at my house last weekend to celebrate my graduation from my master's program, flying in from all parts of the country: Alaska; California; Chicago; New York City; Peru. Since then I've been getting phone calls of congratulations from them, not just on my degree, but also on Keith. Even Charity, my tough-minded baby sister who, when young, demanded coke-a-cola and a Baby Ruth from the drug addicts and various criminals I brought into the family home—even she—declared Keith a “keeper.” And he is, but....

I will miss these mornings alone on my red couch, computer on my lap, local weather outside my windows and public radio in the background. I'm not used to taking someone else's schedule, needs, desires into consideration on a moment-to-moment basis, not used to adjusting my schedule, needs or desires for someone else.

But I am also committed.

The years stretch out behind me: years of addiction and crime, of being an ex-convict trying to figure out how to be a mother, student, employee and citizen. Years of “going it alone”; dealing with mechanics, doctors and plumbers as I juggle classes with work with parenthood; years of falling into bed at night, bone-weary from trying to do everything “right,” trying to be “good,” feeling defective—broken by my past—successful at everything except the male/female relationship thing.

And now, today, I have everything I've worked for these past ten years. My son is grown and out of the house and he's alive and well: I didn't kill him or leave too many scars. I have a beautiful little house, a space I've made mine and find aesthetically pleasing. I left prison with only the high school equivalence certificate obtained in Annapolis, Maryland in 1976 and—after eight years of college—now have a graduate degree. I have a satisfying career; I'm doing work I feel passionate about in a healthy, supportive workplace and I'm financially stable.

And I have a man who loves me and who wants to share his life with me. Change has been hard, but it's also been good.

 It's the end of the world as I know it. 

And I feel fine.