Give me mornings. Long, slow, sun-dappled mornings. White linen and cotton. Lace patterns on the hardwood.
Give me the breeze of early May. Of middle October. Of the eve December. The smell of earth turning. One in birth and one in death. Both are useful in starting over, both feel chilly on the skin.
Give me pancakes and no plans. Give me clean sheets and no where to go. A lemonade too early in the day and a good book. Give me your hand while you are still sleeping, a slow smile, a cup of tea to wake me if I’m still dreaming far away.
Give me the mystery of fog. The glory of sunrise. The green of Summer. Without the worry. Without the fear. Without the pressure of doing it “right”.
Take me back to 12. To 10. To 8. To never ending afternoons and weekends that stretched and yawned like the trees in the breeze. To a time when I believe in it all. To a time where I felt more than just bone tired. To a time when I thought I could have-not all of it, no, but a little something of my own. And someone who belonged to me and was softened by my love. Like butter melting on a short-stack in the background of great conversation and the time and patience to let it pool on the plate while we kiss.