So here goes….
I’m having a dinner party at my fantasy flat in a chic London
neighborhood with all my posh work friends, and some not so posh. It is a late October afternoon of grey skies
and chill-to-the-bone rain outdoors.
Inside, my husband is nursing a Guinness in a vast sitting room,
regaling an intelligent friend (who he is, I know not) with some obscure story
about Abraham Lincoln as a young lawyer, while my daughter sits in a window seat,
typing away on her mobile phone. I am happily in the kitchen, getting ready to
serve a huge pot of Cincinnati chili and corn bread to the assembled throng.
But no, I’m not really
in the mood for a chilly and damp fall evening in London with imaginary
friends, so my mind wanders to….
A rustic, fantasy beach home on Fire Island, where my oldest
friends in the world and I are sitting on a deck, staring out at the ocean,
while sipping some pomegranate and vodka drink or another that tastes cool and refreshing,
chatting away like magpies, jumping on each other’s words to make a point. In this lovely reverie, we are all fit and tanned
and younger with lovely hair that
hasn’t started graying or thinning out yet….
But then, my thought
pattern rewinds back to a special memory from the past….
My husband and I are in the outdoor, heated, salt-water pool
at the Banff Springs Hotel in Canada, surrounded by the majestic Rockies. It is a cloud-free late August day and,
despite the sun, there’s an early indication of fall in the air. Our 3 year-old daughter stands on sturdy
little legs at the edge of the pool, cautiously optimistic that if she jumps
in, her father will catch her. Her eyes
light up, she leaps, he does, she squeals with delight, we intertwine ourselves
in each other’s arms, one happy family unit. Smile. Misty eyes. At top of short list of best holidays ever.
Phone rings. Crap.
Work.
Back to the here and now. Happy Tuesday.
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