the comfortable and the worn inMature

She looks back at all she'd ever wanted. Small towns with big people; the dusty morning light spilling in through the caliginous panes of glass; a small cottage nestled in a cove in the woods, surrounded by moss and ivy and wild flowers. Paperback books scattered like remnants of her thoughts. The cry of the tea kettle; the smell of the fireplace; the crisp spring air drying her sheets. Sundresses, painted toe nails, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Snowball fights in the winter and picnics in the autumn. Fresh bread cooling on the counter. No stress for miles around. Exotic coffee in the cabinet; glazed chocolate donuts on the counter under glass; her bare feet on hardwood floors; t-shirts that fit her like a second skin; her hair braided over her shoulder. The quiet life of the comfortable and the worn in. The intricate pattern of light pooling on the floor through the lace curtains; potted orchids and bamboo lining the window sills. Homemade tea in a pitcher on the porch. Jazz records playing in the background like whispers of lives already lived. 

The End

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