Day Dream

There's a small home with a yard; in a safe place. Rooms are flooded with sunlight and I'm ok with the dust particles I see floating, and the random strands of dog hair that have escaped the vacuum and found their way to the bottom of my socks. Strategically placed, there is modern, yet comfortable furniture that demonstrates a need for colors, design and tidiness, as well hopes of creating a welcoming, creative and relaxed environment. In the afternoon, shadows of tall trees outside fall across the wood floors, chairs, and tables. It refracts through glass vases and rainbow catchers. Years of collected artwork (some good, some not) hang in frames and a couple tasteful tchotchkes sit on book shelves and table tops with photos we've taken and have been given. An assortment of shoes in various sizes and coats lie rested and piled in the mudroom. A heavy, traditional oak table that seats eight claims its space in the kitchen. It is where we eat, play, talk, cook, and study. Initials are inscribed in the sides and corners of the table, where I may not notice, but every time I do it makes me grin. There is always tea in the cupboard, and jelly in the fridge. People like being here, and I do too.