All houses, I suppose, have a morning side and an afternoon side. My little house on the river is no different.

The morning side, where most of the windows are, warms in the sunshine (except on days like today.) The sun that creeps over the hills across the river tickles my eye into waking and paints rainbows through the prisms in the living room windows.

The afternoon side is an embrace. Dim in the daytime, yet sweetly bright toward the end of day, full of 3 p.m. light, the perfect place to cuddle under a throw for an afternoon nap.

The morning side is where I write, mostly (at least until I clear some of the flotsam of the move that hasn’t yet found a place to live), saving artificial illumination for when it’s absolutely needed.

The sky on the afternoon side was built for sunsets. My parents and I used to bring the lawn chairs there on every promising evening, to watch the sun go down gloriously against the far hills. The near hills, like my old bedroom, were made to celebrate the retiring of the sun.

For me, writing has become the occupation of the morning side, the light. My heart, nowadays, belongs more to the morning side; the evening side, a time for recovery and reflection. Some days I still want to pull my horizons in tightly, and tug my concentration close around me, like a coverlet over my head. That, I guess, will be what the office is for. For the times I seek the darkness rather than trying to chase it.

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