Henny’s.

I step into the house with a name.

For the life of me, I cannot recall this name… No matter… There stands before me a round table. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I immediately find comfort in this space.

What happens here?”, I ask. 
“Oh, just watch and see…”, says the old man with a familiar grin.

I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t tell if it was him or his non-physical being that I was looking at. He was a man that had lived a life of contentment. Never of opulence, despite having had that opportunity in his complicated life. He much preferred a life of modesty; a life he could view in a soulful panorama at any given moment. He was old, and he was happy. How did I know this?

Have we met before?
“Have we? Hmm… We’re going to, maybe.”

I’ve never known how to handle enigmatic responses, so an unsure chuckle was all I could let out. As he turned around to collect what I assumed to be treats for us in the kitchen, it occurred to me just how many people were in this obscure living room. 8, maybe 9 people all huddled around each other around the table. They clearly were each from very different walks of life with and with little in common. Not only was the company of a particular oddity, but the walls were plastered with what appeared to be handwritten poetry. I didn’t read any of it, but it looked beautiful. My focus turned to the people, and I then realized that everyone was writing poetry in that moment except for me.

Henny’s place was a weird one.

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