sitting at my desk quiet, the pink of morning dawn filtered through the shades;
the drawings of schoolkids, a funky monkey sketched out in a fast food booth filled with friends;
a post office queue and wait to obtain a new passport;
trains and cars making circuits on the table and stories of Thomas and George on the couch;
deaf girls critiqued by their sewing teacher and seams turned by accident and ripping out labels from samples, tiny pieces of white thread stuck to the legs of my dark jeans;
iced down Topo Chico in a sweaty glass bottle;
soapy suds for washing plastic cup after plastic cup after plastic cup;
smiling children with glue all over their hands;
dinner served, just enough for everyone;
text from evening services, to make me smile and to sigh;
bulk groceries, boxes and bottles and bags put away, stocked and ready for the week to come;
sitting on the couch listening to chatter from home, a connection that makes 50 miles sound much farther.
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