The Fiery Quill

Intimate glances, long fingers and legs. Saying things, yet finishing sentences inside your head. One mirror in the house, given a cursory glance from time to time...Just a quick combing of a hand through your hair, a sniff at socks before they go on your feet. A plaid shirt and jeans are your armor, as you set out by bike or by car. Books are a sanctuary, your kitchen an escape as concoctions emerge from pots and pans. Careful to always brush your teeth before bed....yet careless when it comes to planning beyond tomorrow. Your laundry basket overflows, as does your creative mind and generosity to a fault. A contradiction: your caged heart keeping you safe...but eyes bright, peeling back layers for a glimpse inside. You are: German poetry translations, student of the stars, cowboy ancestor, bath-time reader, unruly childhood, meditating, epic bike rides, laughing Yogi, blue-eyed bandit.

Growing up, the kitchen was always the center of the universe in our house. It wasn't a huge space, or even a modern one. Nonetheless, our lives unfolded on many occasions, in every season of the year...and of our lives as a family, in this humble room. Just about every morning during the school year, I could be found eating my breakfast on the floor of our cozy kitchen. Especially in the winter, my back against the warmth of the old-fashioned radiator hidden behind a screen. I would happily eat my Cream of Wheat or waffles, usually still in my pajamas. My first thought on a cold and dark winter morning, was getting downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen. NPR was always on, the familiar voices reporting as my mother made coffee at breakfast or tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. My next favorite perch was on the counter, next to where we piled the days mail. Mom and I would chat, often joined by Dad when he returned home from work...tantalized by the smells of dinner bubbling merrily ...