The Nest

She has lived alone, for as long as I can remember. But it does not seem like it. My mother’s aunt’s home has always been full of life.

There is always someone to greet the first ray of sunlight – a plant. Countless rows of plants happily open their leaves wide, smiling from eye to eye at the morning. There are small, straight leaves, and broad leaves. Some have curled tips, as if they are shy, and others fear no one – they have pointed tips. They watch their friend, who also rises by the sun, as she sips tea from her artistic mug. Two fingers go through the ear of the cup and the other hand warms itself on the mug. She looks outside at the emerging sun, and then at her plants. Now they smile at each other.

You see, any big a house can feel as cozy as a nest with her sense of arranging things. She knows exactly where the pillows must go, and where which plant will look the best. Her home had a little wooden swing before. It was the perfect place to sit and read. Rather, any place was made to read. Every nook of every room smelled of books and you could drown in that smell.

As afternoon arrives, she must cook. You can hear the music of the utensils, as she makes a lovely dish—starting from one utensil, to the next, to the next. The pressure cooker has always startled me, but not here. It was too calm and perfect here for anything to make me jump.

I look at the miniscule pieces of foil in the fish tank. There are two golden ones, and three a mix of black and white and green. They swim so gracefully in that little tank. They must have their own world…. There used to be two tortoises before. Out they used to come to meet us, trotting like a child who has just learned to walk. Their scaly head did tiny bounces on every step.

Now it is post lunch. She may sleep, or maybe she will read a book. She could merely sit too. You do not have to keep doing stuff in that house, just sitting is enough. She is painting. She takes out a cloth, stained from years of training, but fresh, much like herself. While dipping her paint brush into the water bowl, she has already decided what to paint. So she does. Brilliant strokes create another creation worth displaying. Or maybe she will hide the treasure in her cupboard, among more of the sort, but very different from each other.

It is tea time now. Which means it is also story time. She has a box of stories inside her. The stories keep coming out from there, each one a new addition to my box. She is a wonderful storyteller, and glancing around her nest, I am not surprised.