The windows have been open all day today. They’re open, even
now, and the thermostat reads seventy-three degrees, and the train’s whistle
sounds more like a wistful fog horn, like Coleman Hawkins’ gorgeous entry at
the beginning of “My Man,” that moment that just undoes me. And this was one of those days. Those days
where you think that if eternity were a real thing, and a record skipping on
the same song of one day, repeating over and over, this day would be sweet and
real and a million things to notice so you would never regret the seamless transition
from one bar to the next of the same, persistently perfect tune.
Our morning began with baking chocolate chip cookies
together in the kitchen. Langston hauls his step stool out, and we trip back
and forth to the pantry, pulling out ingredients as he names them: “White
sugar! Brown sugar! Shortening!” He scoops and plops the dry ingredients in the
bowl, and counts off my cracking the egg into the bowl with the precision of
the French chef in Sabrina: “One…two…three…CRRRACKK!”
After warm coffee (for me) bananas (for him) and chocolate
chip cookies for breakfast, we immediately headed outdoors into the woods. I’ve
said before how beautiful it is to walk out the door, around the driving circle
in our complex, and right into the trail’s beginning across the way. For two
and a half hours we met no one, save a courteous mountain biker at the very
end. Collecting pinecones and
interestingly-shaped sticks, pausing for the occasional cheesy photograph, we
relished in the sharp blue sky, the little bridges and huge rocks, and all of
the other minute sensory details.
How often in our busy workday, do we pause to
measure roots with our feet, to trail our fingers across rough bark or any
other texture which slows us down?
Remember that scene in Amélie,
where she sinks her hand into a sack full of grain, and taps the crystalline
surface of crème brulée with the tip of her spoon? It’s like that.
We returned with our coats slung off, draped through the
strap of my bag, cheeks reddened and legs all stretched out. A quick nap (two
hours, naturally) and we were off to Langston’s weekly speech/physical therapy
appointment, at a new fancy-schmancy building in Epping. Not too long ago, I decided to attend these
appointment with my ratty sneakers on and music at the ready. I ran for forty
minutes today, and my legs propelled me effortlessly up hills, with farms,
fences, and landscape rising and ebbing with the road.
Arriving again home not too long ago, dinner started, I took
a first, cold pull of a Smuttynose IPA. Pita bread filled with hummus, tofu,
steamed broccoli and a handful of salty crackers. Langston is now drowsily munching on his
dessert, a final chocolate chip cookie from our batch this morning. After I
tuck him into sleep in just minutes, I plan to draw a long bath with eucalyptus
bath salts, a lazy book of travel essays at hand, Coleman Hawkins on the
mini-speakers in the bath room. It’s
that moment, just at the beginning. You’ll
hear it.*
*But if for some reason, you’re not sure…it’s at one minute
and nine or ten seconds. There. Now you know.
No comments:
Post a Comment