This is my spot. My space. My favorite place in the whole house.
The chair is threadbare now, concealed in a throw over the top. The arms show scars from cats sharpening their claws on it, I keep meaning to sew a patch on. Underneath it's cushions have been found spare change, Cheerios, an earring or two, knitting needles, stitch markers and shredded tissue. Stains from coffee spills and red wine, barely discernible, are there. But is is integral to my "spot". I want no other chair.
The window too, has seen better days. There is a crack in one pane and a yellow puffy sealer in all the edges. There is medical tape covering a space to the outside where the window pane has slid down. But it is this window that has given me such joy. Here in my spot I have watched the birds come to the feeders and the water and the suet. Here I have watched my children play. Here I have watched friends, family, UPS and the postman come up the driveway. Here I have sat watching for my beloved to come home. Out of my window I watch the seasons change and the years go by.
Here it is that I sat, in this very chair and nursed my children. It is here that I sit in the early morning quiet and pray for them and others. Here, at my right hand, is my journal, kept sporadically but for many years.
Here I have read alone and read aloud uncountable hours. Here I watched a plane hit the Twin Towers and sat in shock for a week, unable to take my eyes off the footage in disbelief at a world gone mad. Here I have sat in prayers of gratitude and petition, in tears of joy and those of sorrow. Here I have sat beaming with happiness and here I have sat, head in hands in frustration and despair. Here I have watched our children grow and here I will be when they are gone.
And when there is no longer a struggle to find personal space, when the children are grown and gone, this will remain, my spot.