“How long have you been here, 10 days?” Guilio asked.
I paused, just short of placing another tea mug in the dishwashing rack.
“Yeah, I guess so, I replied, “Only it feels like I’ve been here for months.”
That was last night. Last night, we stayed up into the latest hours of darkness, reading poetry from an old volume of verses and from laptop screens or scrabbledy notebooks. Lord Byron, Emily Dickinson, John Yeates all settled in with us on couches and easy chairs and soft spots on the floor. Empty tea mugs collected on the coffee table, and gradually, blankets came out to be tucked under chins. John, our resident poetry major, offered critique and praise on our reading and writing.
L’abri feels more like home than ever. When poetry night came to a close and I was washing up in the kitchen, I realized how much I am already a part of this place.