Sun pour’s through the white lace curtains as they move with the breeze.
Foreign music is played, filling the space with a relaxed atmosphere, the comfort of language, and the unknown meaning of the songs.
The smell of chai wafts from the warm teacup, steam drifting upward.
A caramel cookie sits on a notebook in temptation.
An open script lies alongside eager to be extracted, scribbled on and highlighted. The day is not young, and not old.
The carpet underfoot could do with a vacuum, but the floorboards are swept and shining.
The soft knowledge of a happy day makes my heart race, an impulse after a secret thought or memory.
A half smile spreads and takes over my face, encouraging said heart flip flop behaviour.
The telephone is muffled, far away enough to be ignored, the threat of interruption unlikely.
A stool sits reminding me to fix it, I make a mental note to locate a flat head and screw it down later.
Somehow I know I will “forget” to get around to this, and secretly hope some handy person will magically do it for me someday.
This fantasy is one that will never be realised, but is a small comfort all the same.
A well-stocked fridge and cupboard promotes knowledge of an enjoyable lunch ahead.
Being alone my mind decides to wander and I let it, just for now.
A native flower leans in a small vase, having been preserved for some months, a new member of the family.
A milky-white cardboard cow stands rigidly in the kitchen, eager to cause an unexpected chuckle.
Soft chocolate coloured curls cloud my face and I dream up a beautiful garment to wear them with.
Friends frozen in photographs smile at me from the walls, reminding me where I come from, and who I live, and love, for.
In my private world I am happily safe and at peace.