The warmth from my cell phone lingers on my fingertips. It is the recent memory from a long-distance friend. Her encouragement and the words of my insecurities replay in my heart as I sit, whiffing the cologne of a visitor, the fresh branches of fir, and the garlic scent of dinner.
A friend in red sits across from me, her eyes scanning a story with disappointment. Disappointment in the story? No. Disappointment in the writer. Sadness, doubt, and a hint of melancholy furrow her brow. It was the tipping point for depression.
The couple in the kitchen laugh and banter. Their sunny personalities spark joy in an otherwise pensive room. Their innocence and workmanship bring peace and spur me into a concoction of feelings: discontentment mixed with hope.
Outside, the crickets chirp faintly. Winter has dulled their cheer. The silence of darkness that settles like a blanket over the world, broken only by that faint chirp, seeps through the open window. The glow of the salt lamp wards off fear.
A half-finished drawing is sprawled on the rug while the half-mussed sofa invites weary souls. Laptops lay opened in crooks of the room, and the dried rosebuds sway gently from the ceiling. The atmosphere is reminiscent of fairyland.
The girl in red leaves to go dancing, hoping to dissolve sadness with healthy pleasure. Dinner is served. A spider visits. The room is filled with laughter, banter, and contented cheer. Somehow, resting here, I am happy amidst longing. I am filled without realized hopes. I am surrounded by warm serenity.
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