They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.