My favorite room

My favorite room was a room in my house in California. It had large picture window with a southwestern exposure and was bathed in an incredible light during the afternoon. We had a birch tree in the yard with willow-like branches through which the light filtered, making patterns dance along the wall in the evening light.



One day, I set a vase of tulips on the table, and each one filled with light, like a fine, bone-china cup filled with sunshine spilling out onto the table. On another day, an arrangement of calla lilies caught a rainbow that moved around the bloom like a genie coming out of a bottle.



The room was beautiful, too. We had a baby grand piano in there, and there always seemed to be an amber cast to the light.



I liked to open that picture window and lie on the sofa a read and doze listening to the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking, of cars passing on the street in a gentle rain -- the sounds of life. I'd open the French doors in back, as well, and listen to the water fall in the spillways in the pool and the parakeets' joyful, raucous arguments with pigeons that ate their spillings outside the cage.



The palms sighed, "Hush," on a gentle breeze, afraid they might wake the Santa Anas, and the sun boiled down behind the hills, angling her light in a silver spray.



I don't miss California, but I miss my room -- my sanctuary. It was the most peaceful place on earth.