I can’t go to sleep on that note. I just can’t.
Instead, imagine this with me. We’re in a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, sitting on a hard, wooden floor, looking at the sun rising over the water, out French doors. The sun is hot on our faces and the house is still and quiet.
We don’t own the house. We don’t know the folks who do. We’ll never be back here again. We’ll never belong to this place and it will never belong to us.
But legs folded on hard wood, sun streaming through glass, and the smell of salt water–this, too, is our life. This moment is just as real as any other moment.
And the memory of it is so sweet.