It’s 62° outside, and the windows are open. A slight breeze carries an olfactory insinuation of a thunderstorm, perhaps to the southwest. A third of the house away, I hear my sons alternately inventing and playing a game. My favorite woman in the world is about the same distance away in another direction, enjoying a cop/DA/CSI/doctor show whilst forwarding the goals of our household in some way.
It’s 5:32 in the evening, and I’m into a book, or perhaps a chess game. Maybe my sons are inviting me into their pastime. I don’t have anything in particular that I have to do before I go to bed, or during the first part of the day tomorrow.
Given a single wish, post-lamp-rubbing or first-star-sighting or what have you, I’d choose to feel like that forever. Does that make me old? Complacent? Wise? Some combination?