I sat on my stoop this evening grilling a couple of steaks for our dinner. How quiet it was for a Saturday night. None of the neighbors were around; no cars drove by. My unit is at the far end of the complex, and there is a small copse of woods just across the parking lot. Sometimes it offers the illusion of a much less populated residence. I looked up through the crab apple boughs that shade my front porch at the much taller trees in the woods and then beyond them to the sky. A chickadee buzzed twice in the branches over my head and then flew away fast, like he was late for dinner.
I'm a little out of sorts the last couple of days, because my annual summer trip to Maine ain't gonna happen. There are a number of reasons, but they're not really important. As I sat there tonight, I was focused on my dissatisfaction. I considered and rejected the logistics of an improbable October trip Down East to see it in its fall glory. I sighed and imagined myself on the back porch of the house we usually rent, looking out over the Eastern Narrows to Sargent Mountain in the distance. A breeze stirred in the trees and brought me back to this place, my home. I flipped the steaks and took a sip of wine. I adjusted my position on the top step, and realized my bum was a little sore from the eighteen mile bike ride we took this afternoon. August continues to astound us with its lovely weather; today was 83 with very low humidity. The evening, too, was perfectly pleasant... Truly? It wanted for nothing but my appreciation, and so I vowed to oblige.