The music takes me away from my writing chair here and brings me to where. Any where I want to go. On this morning, I’d like to go back to the weekend, where my son-in-law sets an individual lava cake ramekin in front of me, proud of his accomplishment, beaming in my praise.
Sons-in-law have it tough, I muse now as a chilly May breeze blows through my window, bird song following with twirling high notes of friendly greetings.
I lean back in my oak chair, my rear aided by a turquoise pillow at the seat, a flowered thicker pillow at my back. I may be here a long time as I tap out my musings, wild things scampering out of my morning brain.
Where was I? Oh, yes, sons-in-law. The music wafting from my computer – the San Francisco classical station I listen to all day – is Dvorak’s Bagatelle #5 Op.47. The notes weave in and out like the thoughts in my head as my hot green tea cools. Sons-in-law are rarely good enough for our daughters. They have an impossible job – loving our progeny with absolute perfection. My son-in-law may not be perfect, but he came close this past weekend.
He handed me a bouquet of peonies as he grilled fish tacos for the entire family, including their three children, and then finished off the meal with his homemade lava cakes. But first, we all watched as he surprised our daughter- his wife – with a new dogwood tree, digging up a hole while the kids oohed and aahed, asking his wife to name the tree – Delilah the Dogwood she proclaimed immediately – and then playing a trumpet dedication with their 9-year-old daughter.
We all stood outside in front of the newly planted tree, blessing the scene, blessing each other, blessing the sunshine and the two boys who acted horrified and delighted by the newly dug out grubs that slithered and squirmed in the wheelbarrow.
I stop my thoughts and return to the here – my computer desk covered with scattered pages: the Table of Contents of my unfinished novel, the small papers of quotes that I save for just the right occasion, the purple paperweight that my son gave me eons ago. The morning sun glows through the round glass weight that is holding down my thoughts, stopping the breeze from scattering them all over.