Dinner is held in a dim and peaceful room, the windows framing a pink sunset. On the table, flowers are cradled in a vase.
I'm fed up with "good intentions" - not actual good intentions but the expression itself: "Don't be mad, I have good intentions" or "I'm telling you that nearly everything about you stinks, but that's ok, because I have good intentions." They're an excuse for every insensitive remark, personal affront, and belabored criticism; they absolve the speaker of any wrong-doing. There's no need for self-examination or a sincere attempt to speak with tact and empathy. How can anyone be hurt or irritated by good intentions? ("That's one of your problems right there - you're too sensitive. No, it's true. Believe me, I'm telling you this out of the goodness of my heart.")
Walking in the rain wearing sandals that nick my toes.
For the most part she's an easy dog to watch over. She solicits belly rubs, flops down on the carpet by my feet for a rest, and tussles with some of her chew toys. But there are ten minutes when a switch flips in her puppy mind and she tears around the room in a circuit, over the back of the couch and under the bed and back out again.
A game of Scrabble on a bench outdoors with a breeze from the river.
Light shimmering on the underside of stone.
When I tuck them into bed they sing me the lullabies that their parents usually sing to them.