The View The First Time I Sat at Your Kitchen Table A table nestled near a window presents a lawn to me. But it is not one I possess. It is their new yard, first yard, a plot of land far far from mine. My eyes tell me there is just grass with no adornments, but that is not was I see. Out there lies a fire pit where they will huddle with close friends, marshmallows, wine, and laughs to warm them. I see weekends of basking in books and sun while sprawled on lawn chairs. Baraques are thrown on special occasions or for no reason at all. I see future children climbing trees, jumping in piles of leaves, playing on swing sets, racing bikes, and forming elementary school friendships that will last a lifetime like ours has. This nostalgia for events yet to be has one common thread. They are scenes I will never see for they are ones without me. Where I live is a sculpture of wood and brick laced with wires and pipes. Here, in this chair, at this table, I am home.