This was my end table this morning, looking so picturesque that I had to take a photo. If I had set the scene deliberately, the titles of the books would have been visible, and the harp would have been standing upright. Yet, it would not have been half so nice. There you see Jude's little harp, hardly more than a toy replica of his older brother's large one, left on its side by Danielle after she played a few morning notes for me. My glasses are laid aside, as usual. I take them off to read and continually lay them down throughout the house. The books are old--the small ones from the 1920s and the large from the late 1800s. Spring puts me on a poetry kick, and those slim volumes are Longfellow, Burns, Tennyson, Shakespeare, and others. I have probably been crying over them, not sad tears mind, but the waters that flow from within when I read poems. My children laugh, because I cannot seem to read a poem aloud without that familiar catch in my throat. They wait for it, and it never fails.
Through the window is the thatched cottage. I can hardly believe it is there. It is a dream come to life, a monument to all the Irish ancestors who live so deeply within me. If you were to walk inside of it, you would see Our Blessed Mother holding a lamb and the Christ Child in a simple painting called "Innocence." Our Lady breathes life into the grass and stones.
The empty chair means my husband has left for work, and it will be many hours before he returns. We always have a cup of coffee together in the morning before most of the children rise, but when his chair is empty, it is time to start the day.