The dented and faded floral couch sags gently underneath as I cross my legs and lean back comfortably. I reach up my arm to turn on the lamp that has stood here since before my birth.
Bathed in gentle light, I silently slip my book off the end table, gently brushing my elbow against the black rotary phone.
The fire in the cast iron stove flickers gently, embers dampened until morning.
The steady ticking of the kitchen clock mixed with the small snores of children soothe me.
I am finally alone and at peace. Only the crickets stir in the pitch dark night.
This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?
I, of course, wrote again about reading at night in my cabin upstate. There is nothing more calming, soothing, or fulfilling than practically anything I do in that house. I just love it so much.