I like the small stories of our lives, the innumerable tiny stitches connecting miniature tableaux to create a tapestry that will one day bear witness to our joys, our sorrows, our lived love. An open bottle of wine breathes on a 1960’s vintage Formica counter-top. It sets the tone for a sensual Sunday afternoon. A small pan of lasagna bakes in the oven. Three of the four eyes on the stove work and so does the oven. A bonus. The temperature dials on the oven have all been worn off except for 200 and 250. I guesstimate where 375 might be and hope for the best.
A well-worn handmade bar stool in the tiny square kitchen is the perfect repository for a bright yellow edition of the PARIS REVIEW.
I suddenly remember leaving a container of chocolate frozen yogurt on the kitchen counter and run back into the cottage to put it in the freezer. Returning to the dock, my breath catches when I see the silhouetted dog, man and waiting chair there in the gloaming at the edge of all things solid. There is mystery in the way found objects assemble themselves. I see nature, romance, woman, man, dog and a multitude of tiny luminous sparks in the remarkable dark night of life.