autignac

 

This is my view from the chair where I sit whenever W and I are in the salone, as we call it. Whenever exceeds often.

I have a view out the window of three bird feeders hosting numerous feathered friends and one bastard of a squirrel.

W's view is of me, which she lovingly lies and says is the preferred view. If I'm not in the chair, I'm in the kitchen, a straight line shot from her seat. 

This cozy section of a larger room finds us sharing morning coffees and five-o'clock-somewhere glasses of wine on many, many, many afternoons. Some Wednesdays when the bistro is hosting our weekly cul-de-sac Happy Hour, we pull up two chairs to the coffee table.

This table seems simply a smaller version of a dining table in that it too prompts toasts, catch all conversations, and sometimes even a bit of gossip.

A couple Sundays ago, as W and I sipped late, late, late morning coffee, I noticed this view of the dusty glass panes on the china cabinet to the left of the window. Used to be it would have bothered me. Now... not at all. I've come to not just accept such things, but to genuinely appreciate them as a life lived here.

A life well lived.

It was a tender and private moment of realization which made me long to re-watch films like Summer Hours, or any film actually shot in a house alive with squeaks and creaks. I thought about asking W if she'd like to switch seats, better for greeting the newly arrived titmice, but I knew she'd decline, preferring to soon watch me sashay among pantry, sink, and cooktop. 

Yep. A life well lived indeed.





A Season for That
Steve Hoffman