The house was quiet this morning, unlike the weekend when it was full of people, a friend of mine, the girlfriend of number 2 son. I strolled across the hall to my housemate's bedroom to check out the lake. It was striped by whatever tides lakes have. The mountains rising above the lake had a few wisps of cotton batten clouds decorating some of their tops.
The holiday weekend had been hectic.
My former neighbor came in from Paris. She kept saying, "I'm so glad you're alive." I am too, but I felt a moment of sadness that I've caused worry in those I care about.
We talked, ate fondue at the Café du Soleil under the vined terrace, laughed, cried, watched the DVD Victoria and one a friend of hers had made and had been at Cannes (better than the winner of the Palme d'Or, but my daughter's performance of Little Red Riding Hood at the age of three was better.)
The highlight however was when we went to our Indian neighbors. When we shared a floor there were guests, meals, hopes, dreams, TV shows, families shared. We might wander down the hall in pjs for a group breakfast, go to a dance performance of one of us, sympathize with an annoying boss.
The daughter went from not being able to each the button for the six floor to being taller than I am and is looking at universities.
The five of us sat in their living room. The sun streamed in the window. Together under one roof recapturing the past although we all have wonderful current lives.
Magic.
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