A year flew by, but I’m back. Oh, how I’ve missed this blog.
I can’t be sure. I don’t really bet on timing anymore. Plans are something I’ve learned to write in pencil, not pen.
But I think this might be my last spring here.
It’s hard to catch a clear photo of him when he’s two thousand miles away. But oh my God, when he smiles. I don’t even know how to write about it.
A few things I’ve learned the hard way.
I took a deep breath, raised a trembling hand, and knocked.
I heard footsteps inside. A small pause as the lock turned. And then, the door cracked open. The first thing I noticed–and what I suddenly remembered from a lifetime ago–were those blue eyes.
Nearly a year ago, I was dreaming of the Pacific Northwest. I’d stir in the night, reeling from images of gentle rain and dense forests and cool, misty air in my Southern lungs. Of course I’d been there for just a moment–just a flash in the larger scheme of life. But as
“What a wonderful thought it is that some of the best days of our lives haven’t happened yet.”
They sit close, beneath the branches of a sprawling oak tree.
Inside, live music rattles the walls, but out back on a small, wooden bench in the summer moonlight, it is quiet.
When I close my eyes, breathe deeply and imagine my happy place, it’s this.
Always, always, it is this.
Last week, I found my luggage tag from a long-ago trip.
Rifling through my collection of bags, I reached a green duffel at the bottom of the stack.
Oh yes, I thought. I forgot about this one.