The cats are asleep on the armchairs. The coffee table and dining table are getting piled up with newspapers again. The clock on the window-sill ticks loudly, going slow. The light is bright and warm. There are too many ornaments crammed on the few shelves, and my desk has higgledy-piggledy piles of paper each side of the laptop.
Cluttered and untidy as it is, I like it. I see the items that speak of him and me and the life we live here. There is comfort and functionality. There is art and there are words, words on paper — words, words, words, piles of words. And the laptop and various pens. Over on the far wall is a bookshelf, chockablock. We are writers, we are readers, we are people of the word.
I can picture the room, and I would feel comfortable in those surroundings. I just read a memoir based on objects in the author's possession - it was unusual and you might find it interesting. It makes me see my own surroundings in a new way: The Secret Life of Objects, Dawn Raffel (I have it on the book review page atLive and Learn)
ReplyDeleteThe book sounds interesting, Barb. I'll have a look for it. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteYour poem describes the state my home is in too. It brings me peace and comfort to know that I don't have to clear the books, papers, pens, and notebooks off the coffee table. Sometimes my cats do a good job of that for me :) I love "people of the word."
ReplyDeleteThank you, Cynthia. :)
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