someday saturday

some average summer weekend morning, who knows how long from now, i'll be sitting at an old gorgeously-gouged wooden kitchen table with my coffee (in a self-made mug), looking through one of the two sets of glass sliders that corner the kitchen off toward the ocean (both slightly open to let in the morning's salty air), watching the lobstahmen troll through the cove checking traps. i'll be smiling, knowing that if i were out on the dock with my coffee, they'd gladly toss me a couple soft-shells in exchange for a thermos refill. i'm working on the list of things i'd like to get done that day (get to the farmers market, finish writing chapter whatever, call editor to report that i'd finished writing chapter whatever, work on fixing the walkway where it washed out since its been on my list every saturday for several weeks already, crank up the fire in the outdoor oven for dinner that night, etc.), when jen comes into the kitchen and stands behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck and starting the whispering of our good morning routine (you know, the one that our kids mock every time we invite them to dinner with any of our friends, though you know as well as we do that they secretly love every minute of), and it'll occur to me...

this is my perfect day

this is the one i day-dreamed about all those years ago, sitting at my desk at UNA early in the morning, preparing for an inevitably unnecessarily complicated meeting, having talked to my dad on the phone for the whole hour commute about the government and the economy and how i should take more interest in what's going on.