The picture beckons me. A beautiful wooden cottage sequestered in a tranquil forest, lulled by the rhythm of a serene lake.
I imagine awaking to the chirping of birds, fresh breeze and sunlight. The perfectly stimulating ambience for a writer.
Then I start wondering how much bug spray I would have to carry, would I have cellular reception, and how long to get to the nearest emergency room.
Years of being a parent and caregiver have altered me irrevocably.
A chair screeches. It is my son helping his grandmother to her room, her aging stoop supported by his youthful arm.
I behold the beauty of life having come full circle within my very urban home.
Looking away from the cottage, I smile. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.