It’s not often that I think of the floorboards–
their amber-wood and polished frame
creaking under my feet as I get off the bed,
and staying beneath me–solid as stone.
It’s not often that I think of the permanent smell of wet grass,
swarming in from out the window and hugging my senses every morning,
a reminder of the familiar town outside my house,
a reminder of the driveway outside,
of the children that always play by the river,
and the tabby-cat I sometimes see on my daily walks.
It’s not often that I think about the blueberry pies that we always seem to have in stock–
or the stack of pans and bowls and spoons you left on the sink,
a smile on your freckle-stained face,
as you force me to try the sugar coated jams,
and honey-flavored cookies you made for the neighborhood potluck.
It’s not often that I think of the amber hue that it’s all taken,
how every morning holds a golden hand out,
a kindness I feel when my hands crawl over the blanket
and I close my eyes a second longer,
or when I hear you hum a song from twelve years ago,
and find myself humming along despite not knowing the lyrics.
It’s not often that I think much of anything–
because I know, when I go to sleep,
that it will still be covered in the amber haze in the morning.
But when I do,
when I sit next to you on our old, stained couch that we swear we’re gonna replace,
eating a slice of blueberry pie and smiling around the crust,
taking in the wood under my feet,
the smell of the grass,
the cheers of the neighbors’ children outside and the distinct feeling of your hand on mine,
I know that this amber haze
this mundane life,
is more paradise than I will ever need.