Someone dabbed the sky with paint. Used a wide brush and swept it carelessly across the apricot canvas, randomly dotting it with a deep grey, close to black. I made enchiladas and counted my blessings. I always do that. Count my blessings as if I am unable to just be. I suppose I was brought up that way. Watchful of taking anything for granted - just in case. Just in case something bad happens.
So the sky was brilliant. Like it would gorge any spite out of you and purge away the desperation. I thought about the islands out on the edge of the horizon, slicing the perfect line that defines the sea and the sky. Humps of humanity like sleeping sheep in a field in Connemara. Bog cotton dancing like drifting snow. And I was making enchiladas.
Corn tortillas are lovely. They smell divine. They are pliable when warm like the way I put my babies into their babygros after a bath. Soft and sweet.
Stunning day. Believe me. A guy plays Spanish guitar by the beach. So talented. People eating icecream like it was July. Sparkling sea lured me out of my winter slumber and took it away with the tide and I was crying inside with joy to be alive. Honestly. You should have seen what I saw. The happiness of people can be so affirming. All walking along by the sea with dogs and babies and children and grannies and in-laws and boyfriends and lovers. It's all very beautiful really. People. And you wonder to yourself what you were complaining about. All the long dark days of pondering and wishing to be away from the place and the darkness of it and then a day like this comes. My god. You say to yourself. Am I mad? Did I not open my eyes up to what is before me? Before today?
This day had to come. It had to be. It like going bare foot for the first time since last year. You spread out your feet, wiggle your toes, run your soles along the ground, feel the rough and the smooth and delight. It's like clearing away the cobwebs and the wrath of the past. Taking down the curtains and opening up the windows. It's like a million little things. The freshly ground cumin you raise to your nostrils to inhale. The dog always at your feet, watchful for love. The child who comes home and sits in the kitchen anxious to talk, itching to relate the difficulties in his head. The untying of the strings on my apron. The taking out from the oven the food to feed. The random blotches of paint on the sky to remind me the canvas will never be complete. And I always trying to add to the picture, dabbing and filling in the gaps.