A Place to Write

 

The lights in the house have a yellow glow, sort of like the light coming from a Thomas Kinkade house in a painting.  They're not harsh or dim, but just right.  The stairway creaks with the weight of even the cat.  There is always somehow a hint of incense in the air, and candles here and there, as if the power frequently goes out, although it never does.

Photographs on the various walls are always only black & white.  They are never landscapes or scenery but of long-ago people, smiling, laughing and seemingly enjoying life.  They look inviting.  This is my perfect place to write.  It is quiet when I need it to be and full of music whenever I leave my pen unattended.

It's never been just a house.

The cat's name is Nelson.  He is a distant cousin of Stewart Wobinski, in Washington State.