passage of time

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to listen as you read

A sacred thread wound tightly into our days, I'm sure of it. Beginning yesterday as we slipped into the back of a chapel with its coffee stained floors and elderly gentleman in scarves and sunlight slicing through the room and a wee one smiling his way through the service. Reminders to come with our questions, shame, and tangle of stories.

Then, today. Waking to an ordinary sun and my husband hovering over me to kiss me good morning. His voice, still deep and throaty from being sick. After a breakfast of french press and eggs, we linger over goodbyes. Soon, I am on the road to the small town where my parents live. I'm singing at the top of my lungs and there's snow capped mountains in the distance and flowers lifting their heads in the fields. My prayers feel different these days— 

Mom and I settle into a cafe: one mimosa, hot tea, and scone, please. Just because. She reads my stories and I'm leaning over a notebook pulling out words that live and breathe. We wander bookstores, vintage shops, and I'm watching her face, searching for my own. I see it now. Dad hugs me when I go, says, thank you for coming. I leave, only to return home. This strange and beautiful passage of time. 

At the end of the day, Giovanni arrives doused in sleepiness and slow smiles. We light a candle for the dinner table. Pour lemon wine. Cold blackberries and a round of comedy shows to keep us laughing. La dolce vita, it really is.  

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