Roughly nine years ago this was me.
A warm summer afternoon. Stretched out on the front porch, a couple of pillows under my head, a good book in my hands and nothing else in front of my eyes.
Not much could disturb me, and I would move only to turn a page or reach for the lemonade perched to my right on the table.
Today this kind of decadence is not possible. Though I can sit, now more than ever, I can’t luxuriate uninterruptedly for hours on these cushions, in that breeze. Laundry needs to be done, floors need to be vacuumed. Children need to be watched and cared for.
But he can–for now. And he should.
He has what was my life. What will be my life again all too soon.