I am in my cave. My haven.
The lounge is empty, silent, and there’s a quality to the grey light drifting indolently through the windows that I would struggle to photograph.
It’s been a rough day, for a number of related reasons. None are especially important individually; they're just frost on the doorstep. But cumulatively, they make for a nasty snowball full of twigs and chunks of ice.
The smell of sunflowers heralds the arrival of Abbey, my neighbour. She peeps around the door, her locks freshly blonde, a big smile on her face.
The room lights up to her, and I offer her my best grin in return from the sofa. But I can see by the way her smile crinkles into kindness that she’s not fooled by my show for a minute.
She never is, she’s a perceptive and caring lady.
She steps into the room, crosses the dusty carpet on bare feet, and flops down next to me. Her gathering hug is gentle and determined, and despite myself I’m wrapped in her arms and scent, listening to her heartbeat, before I know it.
She knows, she always knows.
A haven is not a place, necessarily.
I am warm, safe and cared for, and everything’s going to be okay.
The location isn’t important.
This is dedicated fondly to a friend in North London.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013