Good Company

I wanted to write something nice, so I thought of nice moments. I thought of the moment when I climbed the desert hill with Trenton and sat in the weeds and talked about love. I thought of the way the a-frame house on the sea sweetened in the late afternoon, the way rich sunlight poured through the windows like honey onto the wooden floors. I thought of driving through Idaho, hot summer air and dust and a foreverness of country. The music and the company, the way I tucked my feet up and rested my chin on my bare knee.

I thought of good meals, a good lunch, of watching my mother smother a piece of wheat toast with almond butter and layer slices of browning bananas on top. I thought of Maine, of lobster and butter and corn, of raincoats and rocky coastline and the smell of clams heavy in the salty air. I thought of Christmas cider.

I thought of riding my bike through Boston on a Saturday morning, of gardens and streetlights and traffic, of creme filled donuts and cobblestone alleys. I thought of card games, of wooden tables and furrowed brows, thinking faces. I thought of the ranch house at Bear Lake and riding in the back of the blue truck, sunburned noses and jean shorts.

Nice moments, quiet happiness, plain and good. Similar perhaps to the moment now, sitting in my apartment with my feet up and fingers at work, an easy wind coming through my open windows, carrying the sounds of outdoors. Birds and cars, lawn care and conversation. There are papayas ripening in the basket on the counter and our dishes are clean. My husband will walk in the door soon and kiss me on the cheek or mouth and ask “what we should make for lunch?”. A cheese quesadilla maybe, or French toast. It doesn’t matter.