For the first time in this new place I call home, I am indulging in a favourite pastime: sitting at a window, good book at hand, looking on a rain-washed world.
It's a very different sight than I've had for years. Gone is the stillness of the countryside; I have, instead, a busy city street. But today as the wheels rush by, they do so through puddles and sound as gleeful as little feet in red rubber boots. The green leaves lacing the window are from the ivy embracing this house rather than the stately trees of Sohoe. Yet there, just to the right, is a tree I can pretend is mine. And across the street in the garden are flowers that look like pink pom-poms. Where are the people hurrying to, zooming left and right?
It's a question I don't mind not having an answer to as I sit perched in my window, good book in hand.