Today was the kind of day we stole from summer. Picked it up out of late June and plunked it a week into October.
It was hot. Unseasonable. Lovely. I just hope June doesn't make us pay her back. I hope she doesn't take it out of next year's paycheck. Or charge us interest for borrowing so far ahead.
I had sweat dripping down my back after packing up the farmer's market stand early this afternoon. When I pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car -- home again -- I inhaled the scent of sun-baked leaves, freshly fallen and still warm from the oven. Delicious.
Inside, John offered me a gift. Do you want to take a quick nap?
So here I am lying on my stomach, sprawled sideways on the bed. The windows are open. The birds chirp crazily to each other and I can hear chipmunks rustling in the woodpile next to the shed. I don't think I'll really fall asleep.
And then suddenly I'm waking up, grasping after the coat tails of a dream that's already scurrying around the corner and down a different someone's rabbit hole. My hands are empty. I open my eyes. Decide not to move just yet.
I can see the tops of a few trees out my window. They're still. But I hear a rushing sound that ebbs and flows like a breeze in the pines. It sounds just like the ocean. I imagine myself rolling out of bed, stepping through a master-suite patio door, and breathing in the briny air. Alone on the beach with John and the sunrise.
I know I'm just hearing the traffic, gently ebbing and flowing with the stop-and-go light a half mile away.
But I can dream.
Suddenly I'm aware of laughing and squealing and the beat of a song vibrating through my mattress. The kids are playing downstairs. Dancing. Jumping on the couch.
I laugh out loud. Spring out of bed and head downstairs to join them.
I'm the farthest thing from alone but the closest thing to happy. I think I'll swallow it whole.