Ensconced

"I'm going to have a cup of green tea. Do you want one?"

Three and a half honeyed cups later. I'm still at the table, sitting on my foot. He's still reclined on the couch. His knee is raised so that the sketch book he brought into the room sometime after the second cup is safe from his toes.

All those hours in the car driving back and forth from dance class. Piano class. Acting class. All those hours in the car staring out at the stars. All those hours of philosophical conversations with my mom (conversations, she says, no other seven year olds usually have). All those hours had carefully shaped me into the girl sitting with her foot under her, sipping tea.

And is it better to be a bird and work only for food or to be a human being and work only for money? I laugh and respond as I always do.

His gaze fixes on a crack in the table as he ruminates about what I just said, while mine flitters about, incredulous. The abundant sun rays kiss the wooden floor and make my eyes feel as if they are lighter green than usual. We both give a warm salutation to the fan as he turns it on, him mocking me through a smile. And I don't know why he asks my opinions; he's seen half the world and I'm only just beginning. But he does, and I always have an opinion rooted in the tallest of trees with a view.

I'm far from my own country, I'm speaking in another language, I'm bewildered by his earnest perspective. And I haven't felt so at home in years.