One
Week
Earlier
3
Present
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
LEMON-YELLOW LIGHT SPILLSthrough the blinds. Too much of it; I’ve overslept. I check the clock—it’s seven forty-five. I sit up in bed, my tongue thick and dry from all I drank with Erin last night at the wine bar, and a dull ache circles my head like a halo.
I peel myself out of bed and drift down the hall. Graham and Jack are in the sun-drenched kitchen, Jack at the breakfast table mopping up grape jam with his toast, and Graham leaning over the cutting board, slicing an apple for Jack’s lunch. His hair is still slick from the shower, and a damp lock hangs over his forehead, making him look boyishly handsome.
My heart melts at the sight of them.
“Morning, sunshine!” he says, flashing me a teasing smile.
He was already asleep last night when I slipped into bed and curled up next to him, snuggling into his warmth.
He’s just made me a fresh latte and slides it across the counter toward me. My god, I love this man. I often wonder how I managed to land someone so solid, so endlessly good-natured. I grab his face and give him a quick kiss. Jacktoddles over and wraps his sticky arms around my legs, and I bend down, tickling him until he squeals.
“I’ll take him on my way in,” Graham says.
“You sure?”
“Yep. We’re already running a bit late. And your hair’s definitely not church-ready.” He grins and gives me a wink, scoops Jack up, and they head out the back door, their matching blond locks bouncing in time together.
I sip my latte, but what I really need is water, so I drag a tumbler down from the cabinet and fill it from the tap. That’s one of the nice things about living here—the town’s water is crisp and clean—and I drain it completely before heading out for my morning jog.
—
IT’S WARMER HEREtoday; the sky is cloudless and sunny, so I slip off my hoodie and knot it around my waist. I head down our steep drive and walk toward the trail. The neighbor’s fence is choking with honeysuckle vines, and today their blossoms are wide open and so fragrant that the air itself tastes like candy.
A few houses up I see the elderly lady who’s always outside, tending to her flower beds. She must be ninety but there she is, stooped over a freshly tilled patch of dirt, planting a row of pink tulips. She raises a small, red-gloved hand at me and I wave back.
The neighborhood is old and established with 1960s ranch-style homes on sprawling lots. Grandma homes, I like to think of them.
Of course, when we bought ours (509 Sycamore Drive), Graham and I wanted to remodel it, so out came the aluminum windows, and in their place, we installed crank-out windows, the kind we saw in the South of France on our honeymoon.
We shaved off the popcorn ceiling, ripped up the pea-green carpet, and installed planks of gleaming oak. We painted the outside bricks slate gray (they were orange and tan originally) and trimmed the house in turquoise and black.
But I love these older homes, preserved in time, and also the quiet ticktockof the street, the way you can hear the birds singing. Or the tinkling of a watering can. Sounds that are all but lost in suburban Chicago.
It was one of the reasons we moved here. To slow down. To get away from it all. And on mornings like these, I think that it might actually work out here for us.
I remember the hot and languid day last summer when I finally snapped and decided we had to move from Evanston.
We were at a park near the center of town. Graham was scouting for a picnic table—they were all taken—and I was pushing Jack in a toddler swing, the cracked, rubber seat warm against my hand.
I looked up and realized we were stranded in a sea of skinny jeans, all worn by the men. Each of them also clad in Top-Siders or low-top Converse sneakers. Their hair graying, their hands frantic as they routinely checked their iPhones. The women all drenched in designer clothes. (And I love nice clothes myself, but on a Saturday morning? It felt forced.) And everyone keyed up on Starbucks and straining to be happy. Hovering over the children and looking downright exhausted.
Where was the wildness of my childhood? With packs of children running free through the neighborhoods, building forts in the woods? And if the parents were around—say, at a backyard birthday party—they would’ve all been congregated together, mixing cocktails and minding their own business, not swarming over the kids like bloodthirsty mosquitoes.
—
I CRACKED. Ilooked over at Jack and wanted something different for him.
