Titles #32 - "Like Books on a Shelf"
Like Books on a Shelf
I'd like to take this opportunity to lay out some of the basic details of our daily life, purely for my own satisfaction, of course. Our house is musty, damp, and older than either of us, offset in color only by the vase of flowers you keep on the kitchen table and you water every day. Today I washed three pans and walked to the corner store, bought a quart of Wild Turkey and brought it back home, taking in the colors as I walked. Every shade of brown and grey that I could think of, and there are so many more than I could have imagined, from the leaves to the weeds around our house, from the tannin stained water to always, always you. I should probably tell you that today I imagined that our bank account was larger than it actually is, and bought a few things that we probably can't afford. But you said this afternoon that you loved the sundress, as you put the finishing touches on the last coat of paint on our boat. This evening you read to me from a book by a woman named Tove Janssen. Outside the cicadas have come out at last, but today we're just waiting for the coming weeks when their shells will coat the lawn and sidewalk in glistening brown, and we'll sweep them into piles like leaves. Today we celebrate the illusion that we have a future.
(Maybe I'll get to number 50 one of these days after all. Stay tuned)
I'd like to take this opportunity to lay out some of the basic details of our daily life, purely for my own satisfaction, of course. Our house is musty, damp, and older than either of us, offset in color only by the vase of flowers you keep on the kitchen table and you water every day. Today I washed three pans and walked to the corner store, bought a quart of Wild Turkey and brought it back home, taking in the colors as I walked. Every shade of brown and grey that I could think of, and there are so many more than I could have imagined, from the leaves to the weeds around our house, from the tannin stained water to always, always you. I should probably tell you that today I imagined that our bank account was larger than it actually is, and bought a few things that we probably can't afford. But you said this afternoon that you loved the sundress, as you put the finishing touches on the last coat of paint on our boat. This evening you read to me from a book by a woman named Tove Janssen. Outside the cicadas have come out at last, but today we're just waiting for the coming weeks when their shells will coat the lawn and sidewalk in glistening brown, and we'll sweep them into piles like leaves. Today we celebrate the illusion that we have a future.
(Maybe I'll get to number 50 one of these days after all. Stay tuned)