Friday, March 5, 2004

While we were having breakfast today, Muse suddenly interrupted the maddening scherzo of crunching with a piercing look.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Quarter-note rest.

I avoided her eyes and resumed my concert, conducting as quickly as I could compose. She sidled over.

“Tell me.”

“You already know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I told her how everyone has something embedded within that can glow brightly at times and dimly at others, and that mine had recently blinked out. I told her how the sense of place I once savored had gone missing. I told her how much it feels like I’m rounding the same corner with that same gray, ratty-looking stretch of fence. When I had told her all these things I looked up.

“Wow,” she sighed, “that’s a lot to stomach during breakfast time.”

And then that famous smile played on her lips.

“You know what? Maybe we should take a walk, take a vacation. A short one.”

I thought about it. Perhaps she was right.

“That sounds good,” I answered. “When do you want to leave?”

“Soon?”

“Okay, let me do the dishes first.”