Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book.
It is late.
The munchkin is in bed, sprawled across my side and Joe’s, like a starfish unable to commit to one side or the other. He’s cool and calm, so still I keep checking his breath. He is never this still during the daylight hours.
And yet, despite the lateness, and the dark waiting outside, I want to go for a walk. I want, desperately, to meander down by the river in the buttery yellow light of streetlamps. It’s daft, but something Joe and I used to do often, here and at home, though it was harder to get near the river in Australia. The Brisbane River is polluted–though not as badly as it was–and brown, and unappealing. People sail and row and ride the City Cat to work. They don’t stroll along the banks, or picnic, or have D&Ms that reach long into night.
Regardless of river, though, I can’t walk. It’s late, our car was broken into yesterday, and there is a sleeping kidlet in the next room who needs a functional mummy tomorrow morning. So instead, I’m sitting here, in the comfy chair, with most of the lights off, thinking about the walks I’d like to take, or take again…
…around Harvard Square, in a summer twilight, ending with a dance in the pit while a Beatles cover band plays loud and fast (~3 years ago)…
…by the Charles, watching the moonlight tango club, and tapping my feet to the beat (~4 years ago)…
…through the Botanical Gardens at Mt. Coo-tha, climbing up the slow, winding path to the war memorial at the top, where I’m cold and shivery in the wind, even in (a Queensland) summer (too many years to remember)…
…through a pine forest, where the needles are blue, and the ground smells just a little burnt, like the best chocolate chip cookies…
…through the “tired old town” of Maycomb, Alabama, though perhaps with an invisibility cloak. I’ve always wanted to see those moments where Scout realises Mr. Raymond isn’t a drunk, and Atticus defending Tom Robinson up close. As much as I love that movie, I’m sure neither it nor my imagination do them justice.
…through New York, with a pair of Holden Caulfield sunglasses. I’ve only been a handful of times, and it still holds a crazy, starry-eyed, Breakfast at Tiffany’s appeal. I don’t want to live like Holden–I love my life–but I’d like to see like him, just once.
…around the peak of a snow-topped mountain, where everything is fresh and new, rich, lush, and verdant, except with white instead of green. Also, where most of the snow (but not all) tastes like marzipan.
I could go on, but my eyes are closing, and my typing is slowing. It’s time for bed. I have a kidlet to take care of, a Joe to talk to, a long run, story time cooking, shopping, and half a dozen other things ahead. But I hope I dream about marzipan cloud forests rather than checklists. Just. This. Once.
