The light streams in the window, through the open blinds covered in a thin layer of dust. The sun’s long groping fingers reach across the small wooden table with dull corners and rounded edges, worn away after many long years. They glide across the rough leather surface of a big, white, thick Bible, bookmarked and falling apart, and over the tiny crystals of a rosary, sending tiny beads of light dancing along the mint green walls. The sun illuminates the glass protecting the pictures of Jesus and Mary. The frame that contains them is turned at an angle, facing the rest of the room, near the corner of the table, as if saintly figures are watching over and protecting the room and all who enter it. Behind the picture frame stands a lamp, plain and simple, white and sleek, it adds height to the table’s collection of things, although, it’s hardly ever on because the natural light shining through the windows is preferred, the same way the air conditioner is hardly ever on because the breeze drifting in from outside somehow feels better. The sun stretches forward to fall upon a stack of old church bulletins, magazines, school newsletters, and pamphlets. These piles grow taller with each passing week, and over time the ones on the bottom will be replaced, but their messages not yet forgotten. The sun pushes on further still, until it settles, finally, on the arm of an old couch. It’s rough material has been there for years, it’s figure is misshapen and irregular. The sunlight reveals the dust and cat hair floating in the air above it; it swirls through the light and then disappears into the shadows. In this small neatly cluttered corner, I most often picture my aunt. Saying the rosary with us every day after school, sitting, reading, her dusty blonde hair glows a bright golden color, her face bathed in light from the afternoon sun, a cat on her lap softly purring and taking a nap. A simple and quiet person, in a simple and quiet place.