Nothing reminds me more of home than the kitchen windowsill and pondering out into the garden and beyond. Perhaps waiting for the kettle to boil, careful attention to my morning bagel doing it’s second round in the toaster (which never manages to get it just right in one sitting), the radio introducing me to the day.

Today a freshly picked September rose from the garden, the last before the winter sets in, sits in a glass of water, perched comfortably between the handsoap and the radio. Washing breezes blissfully in the background.