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?
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You know I love you, right? So you won’t mind when I call you a bastard for rubbing your 62 degrees and open windows in my face, right? We won’t see 62 degrees again for several months. Sigh.
I don’t think your wish makes you anything but a very wise man who knows when he’s got it good and has the smarts to stop every once in a while to appreciate it. It makes me love you all that much more….
Love you too, Chili.
It’s down to 59 now. Feel better?