The floating family

From my favourite spot in my favourite Oslo coffee shop, I can look across the street at a building that contains a nice little deli called Hotel Havana and several apartments. I usually sit down with my caramel latte at about five o'clock, and by then, three of the windows on the second floor are always lit.

I can't see the interior of the rooms, just the lighting, which is bright, but the good, glowing sort of bright, not the glaring kind that brings our all the shadows, lines and worries out on your face. And sometimes the little family that lives there floats by the windows like actors on a stage.

The family cast is:
1. Man, usually wearing checkered shirts,
2. Woman, often clad in house dresses and with her hair swept up in a soft, dishevelled bun,
3. Baby, mostly seen held aloft by either Man or Woman, as if they were teaching it to add to its perfection by taking flight.

They always look so serenely, softly, reassuringly happy. They smile and play and speak to one another of things that I'm sure are all blissful from the unconcerned, relaxed tilt of their heads.

Today they were dancing: Man holding Woman and Baby, Woman holding Baby and Man, all three of them twirling slowly together.

Now, I couldn't see their toes, of course. But I wouldn't be surprised if they touched the floorboards not at all.