Sunlight streams into the room, warm in spite of the chill in the air. It heats the honey colored wood of the floor, illuminating the fact that the floor hasn't been swept in several weeks.

The light just touches the half full cup of coffee, it's steam curling into the air, that sits on the floor next to my bare feet.

Silence is the wind in the trees, a sound that reminds me of my grandmother. That esteemed woman would be ashamed of the dying houseplants beside the chair, their leaves drifting to the ground on the breeze of the ceiling fan.

I am finding comfort in this old chair, its fraying upholstery embracing me gently in the quiet of morning, in this messy room, its books out of order and leaning odd directions on the shelves, in this creaking house, its memories silently watching from the plaster walls.

Fighting this feeling that life is spiraling downward and will soon land of the floor like the leaves of my houseplants.