Looking for fingerprints

Back when I owned my little townhouse condo in Arlington — oh, so long ago… nine months ago — I would lie awake in bed looking around the room. I would think to myself, I own this. I am not renting, it belongs to me.
I haven’t reached that point here in my little bungalow. I don’t know if it is the shock of everything moving so quickly, the cost of such a small house — so astronomical that I sometimes can’t wrap my mind around it — or the newness of it all.
Yesterday, when the rain subsided a bit, I went out and bought some low-voltage lighting for the backyard. My backyard has a large patio made of pavers, with planting areas around the perimeter and a small area of lawn. There are mature trees — some very tall birch trees in the corner, next to the garage a tree with long, weepy branches — and a couple of enormous sharp leaved plants that look succulent, like aloe or something. Along the side fence is an enormous, mature honeysuckle vine.
I put in four bright uplights, under the trees and shining up behind the largest plants. Suddenly, the backyard at night reminds me of a courtyard at some boutique hotel, it could even be the Hotel San Jose in Austin, ironically.
I sat in my newly lit backyard last night, listening to my iPod and cradling the dog under my shirt — he likes to crawl in there when he’s cold. I looked around at the backyard and began to see some of my own handiwork among the landscaping and felt, for just a moment, that I own this feeling. Maybe it takes a long time to put one’s own fingerprints on a place.