It occurs to me that a deep friendship always boils down to a room. A sharing of one's space, planning breakfast, taking out the spare robe and slippers, laying the nice fluffy towels just so on the bed. None of these extra touches are necessary of course. The room is good as it is, stark naked as it might be. It's the space offered, the shelter from the storm.
A metaphorical "there's room in my heart." Yeah, sentimental, mushy old me. But think about it.
I was reflecting on my two recently deceased friends - how they always had a room for me, and I for them.
In my time of grief in Dublin in January, another dear friend most unexpectedly prepared my room for me. It was my second time staying there and it touches my heart that she always puts fresh flowers in my room. And extra blankies. This time, I hadn't expected to stay there at all as I had the use of an empty apartment in Dublin as long as I wanted. But she went out and got me underwear and a toothbrush and socks and lent me a nightie and insisted on taking care of me for 24 hours. An oasis in a desert of anguish and loss.
In sharing one's personal space there is the bonus of getting to know a person a little better, all sorts of topics come up, the books on their shelves, special lamps, the contents of the fridge, pictures on the walls, mementoes from Granny, music on their systems. Somehow, it makes them all the dearer to me, looking at their china, commenting on the cutlery or place mats or candles.
It's remarkable, this special room of friendship. It says so much about the beauty and warmth and depth and intimacy of kindred spirits sharing space and food and domestic conversation.
And I feel so very lucky that I have a few rooms on both close and distant shores where I can hang my hat.
And a few rooms to offer in return.
