Daydream

Three months ago, after employing my prodigious, consummate wit to solve an epic riddle posed by a street bum (actually a curious omnipotent being in disguise), I was presented with winning lottery numbers (but that's another story). Before curling back up in his nest of newspapers, the bum god smirked and told me to find joy.

I quit my job, moved into a lovely, small, exquisitely-furnished contemporary home in the thick forest on the shore of southeastern Lake Michigan. It's a day in mid-June.

After waking up at 7 AM and strolling with my coffee on the sun-silvered wooden footpath that runs along the top of the dunes, I return to my writing desk to work on my applications for music school. Caspian's clear tenor wafts from the music room; he is preparing for the opera program at Yale. All of the windows are open to a stiff breeze gentled by the thick beeches, and leaf shadows play with sunbeams on the stone floors. The deep, lonely blast of the foghorn is an alluring juxtaposition to the bright morning glories and lilies just beyond the panes.

I read for a few hours - Japanese, Portuguese, Latin. I finish some exercises for these language studies, and then hop on my bike. I leisurely coast under the cool green canopy toward town, the smells of hydrangeas and growing things cradled by moist soil in my appreciative nostrils. It's barely 11 AM.

Town is lively - summer business is starting to pick up, and the sidewalks and boardwalks are dotted with strolling older couples. I park my bike behind the rows of downtown shops and enter the back door of Fortino's grocery. After examining the coffees and teas available, I buy a half-pound of raspberries & blackberries (the candy), some Sumatran whole bean and a bottle of white wine.

Placing the bag of goodies in the basket of my bike, I kick off and explore the surrounding blocks of old, lovingly cared-for homes. Every single one of them is familiar to me, and yet, if I were in another place and asked to describe any one of them, I wouldn't know how. I recognize the cracks in the sidewalks, the knots in the trunks of the old beeches, the giraffe-shaped stone in that old footpath. I've passed all of them hundreds of times.

I munch a few raspberries as I coast.

Presently, I turn around and head toward the riverwalk, and the pier. I carefully ride to the very end, where the wind careens around the corner of the lighthouse. The water - green on the lake side, and brown on the river side - is choppy, but not wild.

I joyfully wiggle my sandaled toes in a puddle. There is a blue line on the horizon.