The house is quiet and the ambience lazy.
Chicken soup simmers on the stove.
Windows open, a cool breeze wafts in.
The dryer hums in the basement.
Hubbs and I refill our coffees and look towards the day:
- No plans.
- No schedule.
- No particular place to be.
I feel it seeping in.
“October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of shutting a book, did not end a tale. Having admitted that, he would also avow that happy endings were never difficult to find: “It is simply a matter,” he explained to April, “of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content.” ― Neil Gaiman,