Sitting at my kitchen table reading a recipe in a large glossy book with hunger-pang-inducing photos, and then cooking something completely different but my husband likes it and the fridge where I scavenge is closer and cheaper than the supermarket where the real ingredients live.
Being completely underwater, especially naked, during daylight watching my hair splay out in a sinuous spherical tumult around me like fine blonde seaweed, or at night when the water is warm and better than the very best blanket.
Laying down on the carpet after standing up all day, and sensing my spine sigh gladly and expand horizontally like a cat waking and yawning.
When my friend said "That night made my soul glow!" and I knew exactly what she meant, because I had gone home that night feeling the love that an ex-orphan knows when they go home for Christmas to visit their eclectic adoptive parents with the insoluble memory of aloneness and step into the recurring experience of belonging.
Charlotte the Poodle when she comes inside hot with sunlight after lying on the patio passively guarding my mother's midday backyard, and I can bury my skin in her black curls and warm up against her while she patiently allows me the pleasure curling my body around hers.
When my hands are cold, but I can wrap them around a fresh cup of tea, and it nearly burns but at least it melts the icicles of my bones, and I dunk my face in the steam until the tea is cool enough to drink.
No comments:
Post a Comment