The story I remembered to tell.

It’s beautiful today. Feels like a dream. Typical southern California winter weather - in the 60's with a slight breeze, cerulean skies. The morning was busy with chores, an appointment that took much longer than it should, trips to the grocery store.

But now t’s 3pm, a good time to sit outside and write. A good time to breathe in the color of emerald rye grass. To delight in the vibrant red and yellow petals of flowers I planted but whose names I’ve forgotten.  To be distracted by bird song. To give thanks for the trees whose leaves find their merry rhythm in the breeze. A good time to close my eyes and have a love affair with the sun. 

Today is a good day to savor chicken vegetable soup with crusty bread. To relish the taste of chocolate with chunks of almonds and a hint of spiciness. To use the special white-glazed Vitre cup for my espresso. To imagine there’s no such thing as time. That the sun moves across the sky because it’s dancing to the music of a celestial orchestra only those who still their minds can hear. 

Today is a good day to visit Mama and Papo. To witness their slow movements. To hear their complaints. Then to laugh off the serious side of life. To remember younger days and how fast they flew by. To let them know it’s ok to grow old and realize I have no way of knowing how it feels for them. To put off the search for a senior retirement home. 

Today is a good day to dream up dinner after a walk. To rub the cat’s luxurious fur. To sneeze. To write a note. To sing with abandon. To put away the rest of the holiday lights. To organize the things to do tomorrow. To make love. To say goodnight to love. To sleep. And dream again.

It’s a day like many  others, except, most days go by in faithful service, worn like a favorite scarf, and then tossed aside, forgotten for the night. Today I remember to tell it's story.