Sunday. Listening to Harold Budd and Brian Eno. Coffee and mini-jelly-donuts.
It’s a grey day with a wintry sky. An anomaly in Florida.
I can be back on Belden Hill. My cozy kitchen woodstove burning. Breakfast dishes in the sink. A stenciled fruit border on the walls.
My little ones are padding around in footed pajamas with their sippy cups of juice. My daughter sits down on her train and gives a push. Woo -woo. The red seat lifts up and if you look inside there are some rocks and a few cheerios.
My son holds a Peter Venkman action figure and chatters excitedly about slime and proton paks.
(He used to be) my husband pours his coffee to the very rim. “It’s going to spill,” I say. “Why do you do that?” He just laughs, bends down and sips a little from the cup. Then he carries it into the living room. It doesn’t spill.
Batley (the catly) races through the room after a ghost mouse and my little girl takes off after her, pushing her train. Woo-woo-woo-woo.
(He used to be) my husband plays his guitar and sips coffee. His. Mine. Ours. We are our world.