It’s a gray, gray morning.
I long to sit outside. The sun on my face.
I am remembering a summer morning.
Good Husband is bringing me my café au lait.
My dear friend Jill has just returned from Paris. She’s dropped a paper off for me to read.
I’m in my garden.
Lavender is blooming.
Perhaps I’m in Provence. Or in a secret courtyard in the 7th Arrondissement.
This morning I am longing for summer.
Summer in the garden.
Our home is in the country. The quiet air is filled with bird song. I can hear the distant whinny of the horses in an equestrian centre down the road. The horse next door answers.
I sip my coffee. Rustle the newspapers energetically.
There’s no place like home.
Even when it is raining.
