When I think of being home

My Place by rl simpson 4/20/2017

I can not decide what kind of a reading chair I want. A wing back chair with exposed legs, and a tall back that pushes back into a recliner.  Or maybe a low back, leather upholstered club chair that also pushes back into a recliner. In my Mother's Florida house, I liked to sit in an old upholstered rocker, but I sold that with the house when they died. I close my eyes and picture myself reading. I sink into an upholstered chair filled with clouds called; down feathers, my feet are on a matching ottoman. Two matching chairs, both filled with clouds, One is covered in silk and the other in leather. One chair sits in a quiet corner near the door to the porch. The other sits in the silent Library, where my NaNa grows her violets and my Grandfather built shelves for books. I smile. I am in my Grandparent's home. I can feel the breeze cool my skin by the porch door. I can hear the quiet in the Library when I close the French doors with the glass door knobs. We are on a rare visit to my Mother's parents. I am eight, he is six. My little brother is in the Tv room with my Grandfather, who has little patience and a few words for a little boy. I have to read as fast as the clock beats until my brother will be banished from the TV room by our Grandfather. Maybe three chapters. He will come with Tinker toys or Lincoln logs to invade the quiet. He brings his little boy energy and the sweet smell of dried sweat, from his hard day of adventures. He is a good little brother, but he never is still and he does not like to read. I close my eyes and sink back into the clouds of down feathers. I am home.