LILAC WINE
It's a perfect spring evening, warm and sultry. The woods are full of croaking, cheeping frogs, a chorus of night; a symphony of darkness.
We sit quietly on the deck, the sounds of looming summer surrounding us. A closer listen reveals crickets, rustling leaves, and a hint of cricket.
It's too early in the year for cicadas, and too late in the day for them as well.
We sit quietly together, comfortably absorbed in our own little worlds. I watch as she turns the pages in her book, engrossed in the story unfolding before her. The light from the kitchen window behind her bathes her in a warm yellow wash.
I turn back to the lake and watch as the sky settles through a tiered progression of oranges, pinks, and magentas. It will be dark soon.
I sip from the glass by my side, a sweet nectar that we brewed earlier today. There is a subtle aftershock of booziness, but a nice one.
There is a radio playing quietly on the background, and when it switches from an old standard to a nearly unknown gem, a smile crosses my face.
Jeff Buckley. Gone too soon for sure, but what a fitting tribute to our day.
When I notice my wife smiling at me, I know I'm right.
This is the perfect end to a perfect day.
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