The fire in the hearth has gone out, unattended. The room is cold and bluish grey with dark shadows in the cracks of the stones and low, lurking corners. Something was here but it is not anymore. It fell asleep, became neglectful, and abandoned the kitchen altogether.
But there are still, hidden among the broken pottery, cups from which you can drink. Pewter plates from which you can eat. Sweep away the soot, gather new wood, and start a fire in the long-forgotten hearth. Open the windows, the door, the chimney flue and let freshness flow through. Scrub the floor, draw water from the well and sort the dishware – take the cups that are broken, put them in a basket and smash them however you like. Save the pieces.
Clean that which is not broken and use it, right away. Find a place just outside the doorway and sit in the dirt, bringing your basket. Create a mosaic of broken clay and glass and porcelain on the ground, stamp it down, admire your new threshold.
A fire is crackling as you return inside, closing the windows. Firelight winks on your clean glasses, flutes and chalices. You heave a sigh and sit down in a spot that you may have sat in, once before, long ago. Sinking into your spot, for it is yours, you hear birds sing and feel the warmth of the burning logs on your hands and knees, where fingers rest like legs hanging over a dock.
The day was eventful and productive. You have done great work, brought to life something that was dead. You have revived this kitchen, this space. You have awakened a soul that was gone, but has at last returned. You are home again.