It was nearly impossible to love our house as much as it needed to be loved. I’d sit in the backyard and pretend I was at a resort the way the tall trees looked, the angle of the moon coming up, the birdsong. The suburbs weren’t bad. They weren’t cool either, but who needed cool?

I smacked a mosquito on my arm and it made a skid mark. And then I put it on the arm chair as a warning to the others. It was the last time this chair was going to get used as it tore when I sat down and now it tilts. I’d march it down the road for the trash pickup tomorrow.

When my therapist asked if I could imagine I was at my very favorite place, wherever that was: and I said our backyard, she smiled and said that’s funny, most people say an island or somewhere far away. And why was I hurrying off to sleep every night? These were nights for living long.

Charlotte and I drove to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream and then pulled into a parking lot and ate it with the windows down not saying much. Then I napped in the hammock with Billy Collins and woke late for dinner plans at Beth’s. We sat on the deck snacking and then I grilled sausages. Later I refilled the hummingbird feeders and watered the potted plants and got the fans going when it started to cool down.

In the morning I set the sprinkler and drank coffee with the cat on my lap while laundry spun in the dryer and the rest hung on the patio. It was nearly impossible to love our house as much as it deserved to be loved and you could say that about a lot of people too. I had to sneeze and the cat jumped off my lap with her ears pressed back, irritated.

And what are we without love and loss? All these spaces in between where it seems nothing happens. Maybe that’s what’s so amazing about love, it’s nearly impossible, too good to be true. We get distracted by all there is to do or fix and miss what’s right in our laps.

Categories: inspiration, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir