My home feels like I’m in a poem. 

“It’s going to be cold at the lake today if we go,” the tall red-headed man says as the heavy oak door opens and closes, bringing in a current of chill air. 

I jump up from struggling with a sentence to feed the big red-haired dog who will be expecting her plate.  

“But the wind will be behind us, not like yesterday, so we should be okay.” In my head I imagine Hemingway at sea.

“Now remember, turn the stove off when you’re finished heating the water!”

Lately I’ve been leaving the burner on after my morning pourovers. “I’ll try Pooh, but I get distracted!” Says Piglet.

Minutes later I’m standing in the middle of the living room, midway between making my coffee and catching this little snippet of life. He thinks I’ve forgotten to turn the stove off. Then realizes I haven’t. Yet. 

The coffee is made, I’ve settled into my writing chair when I hear, “One of us put scissors in the microwave.”

This concerns me. I look up. He’s warming his coffee. 

“It wasn’t me,” I say, defending my sanity. 

A pause, then he speaks. “Oh. It was me.” He sips as he walks to the table to read the paper. “I must have done it after I cut open the microwave popcorn bag last night.”

Those bags are steaming hot. I pull the seams, he does not. I think of the frozen lake. 

“Are we still going to the boat show today?” he asks. He’s kidding of course. 

“You didn’t happen to see where I put my socks…?”

Some may call this growing old together. But I think it’s more like staying young together.

I did find my socks. I was sitting on them.

Happy Saturday! 🤍

—————

At the lake: