where the writers are

This is actually a repost. But I Skyped with my husband this morning. He is still in Uganda. And I remembered  being with him.



Silky swirls of a soft saxophone fall across my shoulders and cause me to relax and link words together to string a necklace around the morning.  I’m thinking of the ocean, I’m remembering how your hands – warm from the white sand felt touching my cool skin.

I remember being so close that I carried a scent of you with me when we left.


The notes are blue, but I am not. I am serene. The sun appeared today as a tangerine hurled against the azure ceiling laced with pink wisps and white fringes. That’s why I decided to sit by the water and listen.


The melody is punctuated with piano runs and delicate flute. I’m only briefly aware of the drums…the beating…the rhythm…the remembering.


Perhaps the coffee should be replaced with champagne this day. Perhaps the thoughts of salt spray on your lips, and the foam around our toes, and the rhythm…that wonderful rhythm that kept us from moving too fast…and enjoying morning jazz.