There was our life, tumbled to the table, spread out. Snapshots. In the hard places, the messy places, and the happy ones, too, frames were frozen. Us, captured.

The cool touch of a porcelain knob in the palm of your hand, the comforting weight of a solid wood door as you swing it closed, the quiet click of the latch bolt as it pops into place.

The evergreen garland, the stately tree, the sparkling baubles, the quietly indulgent drapery of midwinter holiday cheer is soon to commence over here. (So much later than is usual for us, but I’ve decided this is okay.)

It’s a quiet morning here, the day after Thanksgiving. I’ve lit a candle, as I always do, and have tucked onto the sofa to savor my first cup of tea as daylight slowly comes.

Relaxed, calming, welcoming. With these words, I’m talking of home. (You might have guessed.)

Black porcelain doorknobs with unlacquered brass rosettes arrived in the mail last week. So did and achingly beautiful faucet.

The boxelder, sentinel of the west lawn, is always the first to announce summer’s ease into fall.

A pause at the center of the day, set the work aside, let the hungry lead to the kitchen.

The teaspoons had been disappearing from the flatware drawer. Over the course of a handful of years, off they’d gone to who knows where (I have a strong suspicion that boys were involved).

It’s been all about tables in my world, lately. Dining tables, foyer tables, end tables, night stands, drinks tables, picnic tables. Such crucial items, they are, for our living well.

A length of cotton rope, tight between two posts. White cotton sheets, draped and dancing in the breeze. Glorious summer sun.

I knew they’d be coming soon. They’re always first to bloom, the first to crack from winter’s shell.