Two weeks from today, I'll be in Paris. Today, I am at the cabin. When I am in Paris, I will think to myself, two weeks ago, I was at the cabin writing about being here. None of this means anything at all, except that it will happen.
This morning is fantastically typical of a Springtime morning at the cabin. The doors and windows are open. The house seems to breathe the breeze in and out. Birds are chattering above here and there, the occasional blackbird shattering the music with a squawk. The sun is warm and filtering through the trees. Everything is soft and gentle, like a fond memory.
There are five of us here: My friend Sharon and me, her dog, my dog and my Dad's dog. The dogs are in the house, in the yard, up and down the stairs, out the back door, running down the porch, in the side door, through the house, and out again. Happy. Very happy. And Sharon and I -- not as happy since the dogs woke us at 6:30 -- we have fallen into our typical routines. Hers of a project and mine of the computer. Her project is fixing the bamboo windchime that I bought for my father. When we arrived last night, the whole thing was on the ground, the twine apparently not able to survive the sun and a few rains. She's got the fishing line out now, the thickest I've seen. I sit at the bar, laptop before me, coffee and ashtray to my left, recording it all. Typical stuff, comfortable stuff.
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