Lenses

There was one pair on the dining room table. Adjacent the small kitchen through a small door, parallel to the large window overlooking the garden and the high wall that kept the freeway out of view. 

One pair laid near the recliner that stood in the living room. The recliner swivelled: entry hall to television to unoccupied sofa and loveseat. Crochet covered worn armrests.

Then, on the small shelf in the bathroom with all of the expired tooth brushes. They perched above the tower of curling magazines on the toilet tank lid.

The sewing room, of course. They were on the table, beside the machine and a solar system of stick pins. 

In the small room on the front of the house, that’s where I found the strongest prescription, lying on the small dresser that spanned the space between the wall and the edge of the narrow, single bed. Everyone slept in that bed eventually.