I’ve written a lot about the place, I think, as it was a good place for writing. Dazzling morning sun made the early hours precious. Hot coffee under a rotation of clouds. The empty house. The part-time cat. The breeze which kicked the papers from their stacks had the soft touch of perspective.
From this windowed perch I’ve happily catalogued every kind of New England weather. I’ve layered the notes of a piano over the hum and shout of traffic (to make it beautiful?). I’ve read book after book in the after-midnight stillness of an industrial part of town.
Tomorrow I leave my little tree house of solitude, and of deep peace, and of great loneliness. I’m like a crab that has outgrown its shell. In the buzz of moving, the excitement of creating new spaces, new possibilities, I wanted to take a moment to remember.
The gift of a place is its memories.
The spirit of the place, when emptied of me, will be… what?