On the wrap-around porch, sits a rocking chair, the darkest brown wood and blue upholstery. It moves softly, in the morning breeze. It looks at me, invites me towards it in silence. "we can write your stories together." It says. "Bring a friend this winter, won't you?"

In the winter, we sit on the chair, the sun dancing at our feet; my orange socks a tad too frivolous against your black ones. We're under a shawl, our hands locked together and hidden from the world, like secrets in the dark. The chair creaks under the weight of the things that go unsaid. The tea cups sit by, squat and eager, admirers in our little court.

The rocking chair lulls me to sleep and when I wake up, we're in a little cocoon of our doing, snug fits in a world of disarray.