If I could be transported anywhere, it would be to this room in the corner, where the windows meet. There are two chairs in the corner, one against each wall, the corners just touching. They match. Most people think the fabric is hideous but whereas I was drawn to the chairs because the pattern caught my eye, I have grown to love it. Tucked in the corner, between the chairs is a small table and lamp, the perfect soft lighting late at night, when I want to sit down with a notebook and write. The windows are covered with min-blinds and I like that I can tilt them upward so no one can peak inside. There is a tree right outside the window so on warm days, with the windows open, I can hear birds singing, leaves rustling, squirrels chattering, my son and grandson playing on the hammock and probably so many other sounds that I don’t even realize I’m listening to them. Sometimes I just sit in that corner, with my feet propped up on the opposite chair with my eyes closed, listening to the sounds around me. There are rules for my corner. Ask my grandson and he will tell you. You can come to my corner and sit only if you are going to read or talk quietly. My grandson added a third. You can sleep in my corner too. It’s my safe place. It’s my haven. And my chairs are safe from theft because 80% of the people who see them, hate them and the other 20% are too polite to tell me that they are awful so they lie. That’s fine with me. When I’m in my corner, I’m at peace.