What makes a place a “favorite?” Is it the memory of a happy time? In that case, an altar at a Church on Hilton Head could be my favorite place (yesterday was my husband’s and my 19th wedding anniversary.) But no, that’s not my favorite place. It’s simply a locale.
My parents used to take us to a local amusement park as kids, long since torn down and rusted away to a mere shell of itself, only ghostly outlines of fun and family remain. Nope. Not my favorite place.
My favorite place is a sofa. In a basement. In a house I’ll never see again. Where once, decades ago, I drove thirty miles from home to seek solace and hide in a moment of teen angst. I had just had a major bonk in the head that made me realize I did not live in a fairy tale (it wasn’t that my folks were divorcing, but it felt as earth-shaking at the time.) It was the day I stopped being just a kid and realized that the world would not always be “perfect.” I suppose it was the first of many such lessons. That orangey sofa. It was a safe haven. I return to that place every so often (in my mind) when life gets overwhelming, the kids’ needs threaten to drown me, stress looms over me like a mountain with no summit. I don’t picture the room or even the person I was with. It’s the sofa. I just call up the warmth – the enveloping safety. And I can breathe.
A place can be a feeling as well as a locale. Mine’s a big comfy couch!
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