i remember what my backyard looked like a decade and a half ago. No playhouse, no concrete strip around the outside, no swing set. a few old pecan trees. mostly dirt and weeds. hardly any shade.
now the oak and the raywood and the camphor are thirty-five feet tall, and their silhouettes against the moonlight still me. the air is perfect; i can feel the slight warmth of my oil lamp on my face from a foot away, where it casts flickering shadows on the unfinished wood of the table, and on my humidor.
my family is near but asleep. my friends are Penzance and Awake and Maurissa Tancharoen... and two cats, who read my mind and decided to keep me company from a short distance. i think their names are Babette and General Custard-Butt. (no joke.)
i would have once called this a perfect 3am. i would have changed nothing. but in this chapter, i can't help but imagine a few changes.
if my picnic table and bench were a skychair instead. if the green before me were a vineyard. if the moon were full. if i had my own JRR instead of T's loaner. if i didn't have to work in 4 hours.
and, if the skychair were a double. if someone offered me a refill for the iced tea. if i had live music-- living music-- within arm's reach. if i were splitting my iPod's signal. if i could pause and share these thoughts aloud in between song repetitions, with a person instead of a blog. if i could feel a few fingertips on my shoulder every now and then. if the breeze were just two degrees or so cooler, to compensate for the extra warmth i'd feel.
if things were very different.
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