I just received a sleepy, long hug from my nephew. He found me at my computer (shocking) and slipped his sleepy, pajama-clad body into my arms. "Aunt D?", he asked through his still bed-heavy voice, "I'm firsty. May I please have some water? With ice?" He could've asked for anything and at that moment, steeped in perfection, I would've gotten it. Anything.
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We woke to a splendid, crisp, cool morning. I readied myself to get bagels (REAL bagels) and traded my PJ bottoms for shorts. Hubby said he would come, too. With just a wallet and sunglasses, we left solo (kids safely home with our dear company). We hopped into our open-top 1976 Land Cruiser. Oh the morning that greeted us--just. so. beautiful. Wind took charge of my crazy bed-head hair. Joan Jett (and I) belted I Love Rock 'n Roll. My love sat next to me. We didn't talk. The truck hummed its rustic, loud purr. As we drove, the palpable promise of a holiday weekend stretched and embraced the town.
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Last night, we lived on the deck. After the kiddos were snuggled in bed while visions of fireworks danced in their heads, the adults converged. Only two candles illuminated our late-night, adult conversations. That flicker, that dance, that simultaneously innocent and seductive lure of the flame highlighted our tapestry of words. Some of the threads that still weave in my mind:
"My mother went to Julliard...."
"Have you heard Pearl Jam's Just Breathe?" (I hadn't, and laptops were produced and it was played and now I will download to my iPod and play it often.)
"Always remember that you were loved."
"Mom, remember when we were in Vegas...."
"You made me part of your tribe."
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And now, I hear: the clicking of my keyboard, another nephew "Da da da da-ing" himself to sleep, threads of new conversations drifting in and out of my consciousness, a morning movie, discussion of the days plans.
A swell in my lungs, riding the crest of the splendor that sits in each of these nows.
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