Tell me About your Favorite Place in the World...

In the rear of the house there is a room between rooms. It is small and occupied with lacquered chairs with wicker backings, gathered around a similarly lacquered table, dressed with a thin table cloth, under which the leaves of the table remain subdued. The presence of the table and the people who most occupy its memory subdues the bar to the side of the kitchen and the console over which our gazes are continually concerned. Between these things there is room left thick enough only for us to shift between. And there is only one way to face out of it.

The reason for this is the large bay window situated firmly behind the console, which permits the morning sun to fill the table with light as we eat waffles. And through which, we share in a search for birds and squirrels that have managed to proliferate the rear yard that isn’t quite big enough for human use, but is adequately suited for providing the material necessary for this community to emerge. And so this became the stage for wisdom, as we, collectively looking out into the world, stew over the things we had come to know.

Things here live in an ever-present state of making sense. No silence falls mid-conversation. No questions left unfielded preoccupies our minds. No quandaries arise without their share of story in return. And no errand task is ever too much of a bore. The attire (a clean set of pajamas) is clearly set the night before. The menu (my favorites) hardly varies. The plating arrangement is set in time immemorial.
And everybody is still there.