" It's ironic, really. All my pleasures are home ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of Clare's long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under Clare's breast, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked. I love meandering through the stacks at the library after the patrons have gone home, lightly touching the spines of the books. These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced from them by Time's whim." ~ from The Time Traveler's Wife
..............................and I wonder? What is my delight?
1 comment:
the smell of fall moving into summer air. open windows next to your bed. the weight of a cat next to you. the way the pages of a well-read book sing under your fingertips. the sound of a laugh you know as well as your own. glittering, silver-cold lemon morning sunlight. dewdrops. the scent of the Pacific breathing in my window. being woken by sunlight.
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