| dewy decimal |
2003-10-02 - 10:53 a.m.
I�ve had a hard day at work and my declining energy level is reflected in the sun that is slouching, candle orange, behind the fluted mountain range. On our way home, he piggybacks me, and I can�t help but laugh, hiccupping with each coma, that is a marker between the bouncy steps. Cheerfully he turns the burden of my weight into a game. I hold him tight, the way we hold our cat, forgetful of our own presence. The pleasure, sir, is all mine.
When we get home, we pitch a 2-man tent in the living room and eat Spaghetti-O�s on nylon sleeping bags. A flashlight propped between our hips, as we lay belly down, glugging happy scoops of Spaghetti-O�s.
Our cat, Moi, comes into out little lit enclave and plops herself on his lap as if she were among cats, as if we all bore whiskers together.
Later, we move Moi and spread out a page of newsprint from today�s paper. She sprawls out and yawns, making the paper subtly rustle and crunch, Moi�s favorite.
He grabs bunches of my hair when my head is in his lap and pulls gently. This is my favorite thing besides Indian burns. Everything is perfect and full in the tent, and the world is our concentric circle. Soft, happy noises froth over the one spherical wall dripping in excess on silly Moi who has fallen asleep.
He kisses me on my forehead and it surges through my body, settling every thought into a quiet, head to toe.
We read things that we�ve written during the day to each other and trade songs. All day long, having thought of nothing but the moment when I could share my newly found word, or my new favorite song within the incandescent canopy that is warm with closeness.
I curl into him and we fit like Pangea, matching bodies, bending where he collects. A clean, simple fold�comfort in a single step.
Pajamas, and Moi. A flashlight and his eyes. Sleeping bags and Spaghetti O�s. Music and observations.
Love and a tent. Lit from within.