It's one of those autumn weeks when the sun is so bright it bleaches the brown fields to honey gold and the wind makes me wish I had a kite to fly everywhere I go. Inside, daylight flirts with floorboards until the moon's curfew, and roses mellow until my eyes taste sugared melon at a glance. Weeks like this, we alternate between morning walks along the bay in search of cooper's hawks and evenings holed up with old books. In between there's work, but that's not what we'll remember when we look back on these days. No. Our minds will recall strong tea, warm bread, the favorite threadbare quilt. Remember, you'll say, how we laughed at those women in line at the mall buying all those scented candles? Dozens and dozens of them, every one like Christmas shoved into a jar: cranberry, sugar cookie, apple spice. "Just bake a friggin' pie!" you said, and then we went home and baked one in their honor, with blueberries and raspberries and ice cream on the side.
I dreamed of this once, that life could be this. I didn't know then that each day is the past in the making. Once I finally realized, I tossed all recipes aside and started each day from scratch, measuring minutes and ounces and cups and pounds and kisses and good mornings and goodbyes with my hands and my heart. Suddenly, no day was ever too bitter that I didn't want a taste, and most days I was scraping the bowl or finishing the crumbs off the plate with my fingertips. And you were always willing to share.
And there's us now, tonight, two forks, eating cake straight from the serving plate. And this is what I'll remember: just how sweet life can taste.