This morning I am possessed by vague recollections of reading the phrase “At home” in any number of novels, while utterly lacking the inclination to look up the specifics. As in, ‘Mrs. So-and-So is at home, Thursdays.’ That sort of thing.
After dashing around to try to settle the various parts of my life, I am finally at home. There are pansies in the kitchen …
and any number of plants needing attention outdoors. This may be the best watering can ever:
His mouth forms a spout and though he’s something that my friend Herb will deride as “twee,” remarkably functional.
I can sit and write and drink coffee in a chair of my own …
At least when I’m willing to dislodge the cat.
Though I’ve enjoyed every glass of wine with friends and family in the many places I’ve been of late, some stillness is in order.
Last night, I saw my first firefly of the season and blew it a kiss. Today, maybe I’ll tend the garden (maybe not). So my friends, if you want to visit, you know where to find me. It’s summer, and I’m at home.