I glance outside the glass doors that are directly to the left of me as I write at the kitchen table. The grass is verdant, lush with the melting of last night’s frost, the first frost of this winter. We woke to a world tinged with white and sparkling and even the glimmerings of blue in the sky as the morning sun catches the last few gold and auburn leaves that cling to their skeletal frames.
The above photograph was taken a couple of days ago from my bedroom window. The neighbourhood tom-cat ‘Mittens’ had chased a poor unsuspecting black cat, who had dared upon his territory, up to the top of a towering tree. That tree is as tall as those houses behind it, we couldn’t believe the thin branches were supporting its weight. But sure enough an hour or so later, once Mittens had tired of the chase and scampered off, the black cat edged its way down to safety. So all is well.
The washing machine rolls and rumbles and gluts as it drains, as I drain these words. Does writing have a cleansing effect for you? It does for me. I think I write to see if I have anything to say. Perhaps it is not worth saying, but I do feel better for saying it, so maybe it is. Whether it is worth reading is another question entirely.
The tablecloth where I rest my arms, pale pink and embroidered, was once a bedcover belonging to my grandmother. I don’t think she ever used it. It was one of the things passed on to me when she died. I cut it up and hemmed it to make a tablecloth that I might get some use out of. I don’t like the idea that nice things should be stored away only for special occasions. We only have this one life, isn’t that occasion enough?
The world is so quiet today. Here. Only a few household noises in the background. The gas boiler hums and there is the occasional creak of my chair, but mostly quiet. The light streams in. What a difference the light makes.