I sink into the ridges of the cedar table – the last piece of furniture my mother bought for this cottage.

A table that was once home to pairs of reading-glasses and piles of books, coffee mugs and scattered paintbrushes; a table where poetry was read and written in amber candlelight, where ideas were discussed and colours were mixed - memories that now hazily linger in leftover words and shards of conversations.

Outside, fire-nettles and blackberries twine over garden beds and over the collapsed bird-bath. Windows heave under layers of vines and floating rust.

The little cottage is home to many memories that are still aglow. Memories that are held up by loving hands of cedar and cement and terracotta, held up by the books and artworks that line the insides.

It breathes, and so do I.
It sighs, and so do I.
It remembers, and so do I.