If I told you that I made the most amazing salad tonight, would you believe me? Would I care? Would I want you to read the details? Would I be amazed at the response. Possibly not. We all live in our own cocoons. We all exist for what keeps us going.
If I told you that when I was out pulling the clothes off the clothes line that I cried would you care? If I mentioned that I was watching my son water the vegetable garden would that matter?My son who almost died. My son who lay on a hospital bed with a zillion question marks surrounding him. I cried. I cried because he was down in the garden watering the chard and the onions and I watched him as late evening sun drenched the crown of his head. He whistled. Nothing of consequence but it was beautiful. It rose across the garden like a blackbird at dawn. I hugged the sky then and the grass and the calendula just coming into its own. For that matter I hugged myself.
Food is a great binding of sorts. We dine al fresco. H gets the Weber going. Conversation prevails. We regroup as a family. Sometimes I cannot cope with the passing of time and age and yet we always seem to return to what makes us a family. Talk turns to holidays. Where shall we go. Biarritz. Morocco. Spain....elements get tossed about. I want sand and sun and mojitos and something laid back. Surfing is discussed. We decide on August.
All the windows lay open to the balmy air. Ireland is infused with heat. We labour in this unaccustomed heat wave. It twists our minds around. Anything is possible. And the ash tree grows more beautiful, reaching beyond our bedroom window. And I try to recall when I planted it and it escapes me. Time becomes irrelevant. Time fuses into meals and discussions and dreams of holidays and I am lost only to return to the place at the clothes line, where I stood to rejoice in the life that I hear whistling in the garden, the blond head, the throb of existence, the heart beat that keeps me going. Wanting more.