Ten.Two Thousand, Seven Hundred & Four
Stretch.
The tiniest little hawk feather.
Anniversary flowers. Nineteen years. Half of my life.
Morning pages and coffee on the deck. Gratitude for paper moths giving me an extra day at home this week.
Bonus: being able to speak candidly and openly.
“Did you pierce your ears?”
A glass of Schramsberg and a cobb salad. I can’t hear everything, but it sounds like the older woman beside us is newly widowed. She’s eating a pizza and rosé alone.
On her way out, she wishes us a happy anniversary. She says her husband died from cancer in May. They have been coming to Auberge for years and years, and this is where they would come for lunch every Tuesday. Thirty-five years they had together. The man of her dreams. With a broken voice, she encourages us to cherish these little moments.
Passenger Princess.
I like to ride because it gives me time to daydream. I think about everything. But mostly I think about how beautiful the landscape is and how lucky we are that we get to call this place home.
