My tired body is strewn across a comfy chair, left leg draped over its soft arm. I’m dragging last night’s sleeplessness in heavy lidded half-mast eye slits, while I languish in my sore throat’s swollen scratchiness and feel sorry for myself for missing a festive friend weekend.
Suddenly, streaming sunbeams from high windows wash my bare legs with warmth and light as our sweet cat purrs nearby.
With a newly buoyed happy heart, my solitary weekend of recuperation and rest ensues.
A beat-up red Toyota passed me as I turned right out of the Smoothy King. It rattled straight for the dead end with resolute intention. A scrubby barrier loomed straight ahead. On the other side a magical place. It’s true. I’ve been there. For a minute I imagined the bespectacled boy determinably pushing his luggage cart straight toward the brick wall. Track 9 3/4. I glanced in the rear view mirror hoping for magic. If the shaky car had disappeared I’d have burst with joy. And hope.