touching down

Last night, a quiet celebration. An evening out in the cool crispness of early fall. There is never much time to linger – over coffee and sweets – but we walk a bit in the plaza, sit by the fountain. The chill is invigorating, delicious.

He asks: If our younger selves could see us now, ten years later, what do you think they would think of us?

I make a joke of it: They’d think we’d gotten soft. And fat. But he has asked the question in earnest, so I turn it back to him. What do you think?

We sit for a while in the quiet. A man walks past us, smoking a cigarette, muttering. A woman stands near the fire hydrant on the corner, laughing on the phone while her friend considers her own hands, turning them over and back.

I think they’d see how beautiful Z. has become. What a beautiful young woman she is. And our son – how amazing and joyful. How we have these jobs that we are good at. These projects we do that feed us creatively. How we are both writing.

The woman has ended her phone call, and the two of them walk on, disappearing around the corner.

They’d see the comfort I take in you.

How your heart is the place I call home.

I don’t think, he says – and I cannot disagree – that we could ask for more than this.

When we get home, Z. is still up and we watch the last few minutes of the fashion show together, all of us on one couch, huddled under blankets. The house is getting cold. The dresses this week are flowing and draped. Inspired by birds. A white gauzy gown floats down the runway, beautiful, luminous. I think about motion, about flight. About the beating of wings. About the joy – nearly unimaginable for the earth-bound – of soaring across the wide blue sky, heart racing. The wind, the sun. That particular quality of silence.

And about touching down. About landing. About finding a place to rest – exactly where you are meant to be.