Breakfast this morning was a plate of cherries, a bowl of museli and yogurt, and a cup of pomegranate green tea. I ate the cereal with a big, old silver spoon--too big for my mouth--and relished every bit. Some mornings are like that; I'm just hungry and happy to be sitting at the table, the cats climbing on counters and in cupboards and all sorts of other places they shouldn't, the seagulls causing a ruckus outside my window, and an electric fan aimed directly at the back of my neck, whizzing merrily away.
I am having the best summer I can remember since I was maybe a little kid. Nothing is certain, nothing is going particularly smoothly, several things are lousy . . . but there are beaches to walk, greasy slices of pizza to inhale, concerts in the park to enjoy, and friends and family with whom to enjoy them.
At night I dream of a house and hydrangeas and lemonade on a fine, broad porch, but mornings are about the here and now, about breaking a sweat and getting work done. And I relish it all.
If life isn't a bowl of cherries, then maybe it's a plate of them--a pretty plate, its glaze crazed and worn, but all the more lovely for being useful.