I recently returned from a week in California caring for my elderly mother. This is the fourth trip to my home town for me this year as my siblings and I take turns caring for mom. Spending time in the house where I grew up is always relaxing though sometimes a little bittersweet. With mom 100% confined to bed, most of her time is spent blissfully dozing or engrossed in a good novel, and the house is quiet, I mean really quiet! Then... because its hot in southern California and our 1920s-era house has no air conditioning, the windows are always flung open to the hum of a quiet old neighborhood.
I often have a feeling in my childhood home of being able to see out but not being visible to anyone passing by. In the old house, in the breathless quiet, I sometimes find a place between the delicate shadows and filtered sunlight on a windowsill, that seems to hold such tremendous resounding peace. Maybe because I am also meandering along the wisps and swirls of memories as I look at the beautiful windowsill patterns. For whatever reason it's a rich and lovely snippet in time.