I'm sitting on my couch in my apartment. It smells like vanilla and peppermint. There's music I can barely hear coming from the radio. And I'm just sitting here on my couch in my apartment. Smelling vanilla and peppermint. And listening to music I can barely hear. And I'm comfortable. And there's nowhere I want to be and no anxiety about what I should be doing. Just apartment. Vanilla. Radio. Sunday. Contentment. And a weird sort of humility. And I think I'm doing okay.

From my couch I'm looking at a jar full of flame and clear wax wafting out vanilla and peppermint. Behind the jar is a small radio lending music I can barely hear. Next to the radio is a small white statue of Jesus with his hands outstretched. He seems to be staring into the jar of wax. As am I. He is working hard to hold that pose. Arms forever reaching outwards. Head forever tilted downwards. Tonight I suspect he's working hard so I don't have to. I feel like a child in his parents' house. With nothing to do. Completely taken care of. Completely okay.

My couch is firm but friendly. It is firmly but friendily holding me. In the jar three separate flames dance around sporadically, not even attempting to keep time with the mouse music tiptoeing out of the radio. Shadows from the folds in Jesus' robes stutter and jump across his neck and face. His left hand points to a photograph of me and Ellie. We are both smiling in the picture. I am holding her in my arms. We are cemented in time with happyproud smiles. We aren't working hard to hold the pose. We could stay like that forever. We are cementedly okay.

I am sitting on my couch in my apartment. It smells like vanilla and peppermint. There's music I can barely hear coming from the radio. Light flickers across a statue of Jesus. A photograph of me and Ellie smiles out at me. And there's a thin book at Jesus' right hand that recently won a Pulitzer prize. I am going to read now.