My husband and I are sitting at a shall-remain-nameless coffee spot sipping our chilled drinks while he works through a Sudoku puzzle and I eavesdrop on a nearby conversation. It starts me to thinking—I know, that's surprising, when do I not think?—what makes such simple occasions so absolutely perfect? We don't have millions, a boat, or our own island. We don't fly to Paris for the weekend (jet lag would just not be worth it). We have plenty of clothes in our closet but I happily wear the same pair of jeans and the same sweatshirt day after day. We feel, and realize that we are, blessed beyond belief.
The next day . . .
Now my husband is strumming his guitar as the light fades and we relax on our back patio, reclining on our newly padded deck chairs. Earlier we took a walk by the river and admired the three baby swans who must be considered teenagers by now.
I want to wrap this all up in the perfect words, but I don't have them.
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