As I sit on our big leather sofa drinking cider watching Mike talk with his hands I want to close my eyes. Close them and listen, not just to the sound of my man’s voice, but to the echo of his words as they bounce of the timpani.
The big copper kettle stands waist high in our living room right next to our love seat, wedged into the corner between the fireplace and the window. If everyone is silent it calls no attention to itself but once someone begins to speak you can’t help but look at it as it amplifies the tones of the speaker’s voice. Every scratch and dent seems to give it character.
Every echo makes me wonder where it’s been.
It hasn’t always been in our living room where adults ooh and ah and children plead to pound on it with the mallets I keep stashed on a high shelf. Of all the drums in our house, and yes there are many, it’s the one that makes me wonder.
It belongs in a symphony… but it seems so at home stashed in a corner of our room.