On occasion, over the past year or so, I’ve had brief moments of realization that I must be in the prime of my life. These are undoubtedly my salad days, and I will look back at these times as the best I have lived.
Such moments of recognition announce themselves without great fanfare, and last but a few seconds, that is, until some discontent, some chatter from the thinking mind realizes it has been interrupted. These moments also have a distinctly filmic feel: I’ll look up from my drawing table and look out the window to see Marc in the bottom corner of the frame. Then our black and white cat will chase a bird across the top.
Last night, withdrawing early to my bedroom in the attic here, I stared out into the black night through another window, listening to the distant summery sound of the town celebration nearby. Listen here:
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