For a moment I’m transported… a small eight-year-old girl in my childhood home.
My parents are in the family room – Dad is laying on the couch, feet up, working on a crossword puzzle, while Mom sits in a nearby chair, knitting, listening to the Red Sox on television. It is a hot summer evening and we have no air conditioner. My parents never complain, and I don’t really notice the heat. My older siblings are all out and the house is quiet except for the occasional cheer of the crowd as Yaz makes a catch. I sit at the piano in the dining room, the setting sun’s rays casting a golden glow, making the original pine floors glow in our 18th century Cape Cod.
The evening seems to last forever. Its as if the sun enjoys the view and refuses to descend any further into the west. It is peaceful and inviting at the same time. I know innately that this is a perfect moment. I love the glow, the warmth, my parents, my house, this minute.
I remember this. I remember knowing that this was a perfect moment in time. And I wonder if I were to go back, would I go tell my parents how much I love them? Would I ask them if they could see how perfect it was? Because I look back now and remember thinking that at this second I was experiencing a happiness that I could hold onto forever.
