Tonight I'm sitting on my front porch. It's near dusk, one of my favorite times of the day. It's when my vision is at its clearest and brightest. The ice cream truck is playing the same merry tune as ice cream trucks did in my childhood. I see kids frantically biking home to hit their parents up for a buck or two. (Ice cream sandwiches were ten cents when I was a kid. Ah, inflation!) I hear the crickets' song and the breeze ruffles the tops of the trees. It's not enough wind to move our four flags; they stand sentinel on their poles. I hear kids bouncing basketballs, yelling, laughing and calling to each other. I hear the neighbor's dog squeaking in concert with a train horn as it clacks and rattles on the tracks in the distance. I lean back in our beat-up redwood chairs and let the sounds flow over me like a lullaby.
It's a soft night. It's early fall in my town. It almost could be early fall when I was a kid in Lakewood. I'm happy to be here, to be alive, to be present in this moment of almost suburban Americana perfection. It doesn't have the glamour, bustle, vibrancy or movement of Chicago, New York or Paris. It is a quintessential American small town. It's all good. I am content and blessed. I'm alive.
Monday is infusion three of dragon's blood. But that's then. For now this is a form of bliss.
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