The chair is positioned to receive maximum sunlight, while the lounge is slightly shaded, placed under the bough of a buddleia. The chair is where I sit when taking a gardening break; the lounge is something I look forward to, an ideal place to relax with a book.
This picture was taken at dusk on Sunday night, same as yesterday's picture. At first glance the buddleia looks like an arbutus, but that is the light spilling out from the shade garden. These furnishings have personalities. When I look at them long enough, I feel them conversing.
Is this what dusk does? gets inanimate objects talking? Inhabited objects?
My mother's father Howe, who I never met but am said to look and act like -- he is the chair. The lounge is my mother's mother Hildegard, who passed away at Easter 1969 when I was in my seventh year. I have some memories of Nana, enough to know that, until a stroke took her voice, she held forth like nobody's business -- a cigar in one hand, a "presbyterian" (one-third rye, one-third-ginger, one-third water) in the other.
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