Not that you try to distract me as we drive past the farmers’ market. So I will not ask to stop. Not that you will not stop.
Not that our son sulks behind his Puzzle Buzz magazine.
Not that we missed the deadline to fill out all those forms. Even though we gave ourselves an earlier, fake deadline. Not that we trick ourselves with fake deadlines.
Not that the flowers in the green vase in the front hallway are dying.
Not that the rug has not been vacuumed in weeks.
Not that I fall asleep sitting upright on the couch at night before we have even had a chance to list the day’s disappointments. Not that I am always fighting sleep.
Do you remember that afternoon when I bought baby purple carrots and white ones and grape tomatoes from the farmers’ market. We ate them at home with cheese and honey. You were happy then. You enjoyed that meal. You said you would build a framework for a garden bed so we could grow sweet basil and carrots and tomatoes and squash. Lettuces. And maybe peas.
We spent that morning at the market. Stretched out on the warm grass by the fountain while nearby, two women played guitar and sang. And the sun played golden on your skin. When you went to get iced coffee, a woman told me about the old stone cottage she bought in the Languedoc.
And I imagined tending to my own pile of ruined stone. On a plot of hot dry earth. And I imagined fields of lavender. And a short walk to the Mediterranean Sea.
And I told you about it, later. My plan, I said. Listen to my plan.
And you listened. And you said. Can I call it my plan, too.