Empty cocoon

My living room floor is a collage of photographs. Flowers, faces, fall scenes. They all stare up at me. I put them in one frame, then another. Hold them up, trying to get as far as possible from my own hand, to see them better. Put them up on the wall. Step back. Adjust. Step back. Adjust. No. Another one. Step back. Climb on the sofa and reach up high. Hop down and retreat to the other side. Adjust. Step back.

And finally they are all up. The frames only slightly askew.

My living room comes alive.

My bed is made, pristine and soft.

The dishes gleaming on the dish rack in the kitchen, the knife block announcing my love of cooking to any who may enquire.

I scrub away the slightest stains on the bathroom mirror. No specks.

And I walk from the kitchen to the bedroom to the living room. And I sit on the sofa. And I look at the pictures. And I look around. And I look at the pictures.

They keep me company this evening.