Mom sits on the small private deck in one of the two rocking chairs, her feet propped up on the other. A barstool from the in-studio dining set has been employed as a table for her wine, her beads, her yarn. The pattern she's trying to follow lays on her crossed legs. Quiet mumbles of stitch counts and pattern repeats escape from her bubble and leak into my own. I sit at the desk, just inside the sliding door, pecking away at the keys. My position implies I think slouching over my computer might aid the writing process in some way.