In the absence of busywork, grief and life-skid, there exists a luxurious sort of peace.
No TV. No worries. No frantic, sweaty, stress. Just a woman with her children. A little music and a lot of candle light on a rainy north eastern day. Just a notebook with some words inside that weave a story. Just a pot of soup and homemade bread.
A moment. A place to revisit when forlorn returns.