The last two days have balanced the perfect amount of light and space and breath between autumn palms. I have felt very much like writing poetry, and like admiring forgotten things, and like drinking something spiced and sweet, and like doing nothing at all, too, in the best kind of way. Laced with contentment. The world breathes out and the leaves rain along the sidewalk and the morning sun takes its time. There is gold pouring over everything. The treetops sing in shades of red. We wake and we unfold another day and we sleep again at night, if we're lucky, and everything is going well, even when it's not.
In the evening, after Aspen has fallen asleep in the cot beside our bed, I light the last solid piece of a eucalyptus candle and fold myself into the sheets. He and I speak softly about the future - about how nice it will be to have a home of our own, sound walls and windows and doors that close. To be rooted again. To have enough to ease our worries. To watch our children grow. We toss about words and times like tomorrow, and this weekend, and next year.
But it's been hard to focus on anything but the moment. I write and I scheme and I pin pretty pictures and I write wide letters in the margins of my calendar. But my plans are often fogged over, like a whisper on morning glass. I am distracted by the present, and that's a fine problem to have, I think. There is too much that is fleeting, that is rushing, that will never be just as it is again. I hold the heat of my palm agains the cool of her cheek and wait, smiling.