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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade #1100772 added November 3, 2025 at 12:01pm
Restrictions: None
Some Places Weigh More Than Gold
Prompt:
Write about a place or places, real or imagined, that are or were significant to you.
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So many places, in my life, that mean a lot to me...I can't even count them. I'll, therefore, make do with whichever place comes to my mind. But first, this: A place, any place, merely sets the stage. The significance of it is in the event and the people in it.
The earliest place I can think of is the "Cat Room." My aunt who lived with us until she married was a real cat lady. She'd feed many cats and take the sickly or pregnant ones into the cat room and care for them until they were well enough and would want to go out on their own. Some of those cats stayed, some inside the house, others in the backyard. As to the cat-room, it was an extra room, not too big, which nobody had any use for, since at that time we were living in the biggest house that my family had ever occupied earlier. At least, it looked big to the three to four-year-old me. I'll never forget that cat-room and the love I received from those cats.
The second place that comes to mind is the huge kitchen in another, later house. This house was three stories high and on the first floor, after the entrance and a hallway, was the entire kitchen. By this time, I was in my teens, a stage in life when kitchens mean nothing to most, but ours did to me. This is because our kitchen was more than a kitchen. For being huge, not only it had cooking and storage areas, but also, in the middle of those an empty space which had a dining table that could easily seat 12 people.
Although we had a dining room on the side of the first floor, everyone loved this kitchen, beginning with yours truly. That kitchen was our anchor with a sacred value. It was a place where, visitors and family alike, wanted to eat in. I recall several guests telling my mother, "Don't bother with the dining room. Let's just eat in the kitchen." So that kitchen became holy, sort of. It was a place where everyone felt comfortable enough to tell and say anything, even their most private matters. I loved that kitchen. It was where we argued, loved, learned, and dreamt.
These two places are my biographical landmarks. When I recall them I hear the echo of me, the very young person that I once was. If the walls of these places can speak, they would speak of a history only I, and maybe some others, too, can understand.
Later on, I also loved lots of places, mostly vacation seasides, rocky shores, seas in action against the wind and the storms, and those lovely little towns my husband and I kept visiting because we both loved the aura and personality of small towns and their many varied ways of life with internal meanings. The memory of all these places, even today, bind me to their unique universes as if they are still sacred, divine, and lovable, and with great depth.
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