Beautiful Sunday. Two magpies kiss on the lawn. The daisies grow taller than my youngest son and shine before the fucshia hedge like eggs over easy I once ate in a diner in Santa Monica, yolks ready to explode to fill the lack of sunshine on this dismal Summer. And chicken for dinner roasting in the oven stuffed with breadcrumbs and sage discovered by chance in the designated overgrown patch of wilderness to the north, growing like a bush it is without any guidance from me I hasten to add.
And the avenue off the lane dappled in the afternoon sunlight where H and I walked with the dogs and I stopped and wondered if I should open the old rusting iron gates and walk in but something stopped me, told me to keep moving. So I got home to life. And all the comings and goings in my head and the Sunday newspaper that I barely glanced and to recipes in my mind that kept me spinning. Tons of sentences keep coming back too like lost memories. They flit in and go again. Chopin on the radio and a big bunch of flowers that shed yellow hearts on the dining table and sky blue candles that are never lit in the nights that rarely lose their light. A sipped glass of Malbec going nowhere. Empty books on the shelf. Lost souls. Friends in places I will never see. What happened to Carol and Patsy and the brother I love? What do they think on this day as I pass through the motions. Do they see the avenue with the dappled light? Do I cross their minds? Surely but surely not. I do not know nor will never know.
We harden over time. Like bad berries or barnacled shells on the beach or twisted trunks of once elegant trees. We spill over into a place we rarely choose but still arrive at, bags unpacked, stowed like heavy weights on our bones. Once, just once, I dream of seeing the one I love at my door. Arms open wide. A tear in the eye. A sense of sadness. A sight of the avenue and how it ends somewhere along the way with only a slight bend to offer respite. A place for someone to come home. To greet me with nothing but love.