Sundays are a special day. A day when anything can happen but you don’t need to do anything.
I sat out on my new porch this Sunday evening for a solo dinner before the sun set but after the true heat of the day. As I perused the summer edition of Porter Magazine, slowly devouring my favorite meal of buttered toast with scrambled eggs, I felt the thick heat of nostalgia hit me. What would I have thought of this future me five year ago, 10 years ago? Would I ever have envisioned an evening where I contentedly sat by myself outside at dusk, calmly munching on a decadent cucumber and feta salad, knowing that I was loved and at peace with myself (or as at peace as a 20 something girl can be)?
As the evening musk of heady southern flowers settles over my yard, I am content not to worry about my past or indulge in future plans. I will sit and read charming articles about far off destinations and drink my sweating hard ginger ale. This evening, after a glorious bath, I will snuggle into my soft bed with a copy of D. H. Lawrence’s Twilight in Italy, not knowing or thinking about what Monday will bring as I am lulled to sleep by the trill of crickets outside my window.
And all was well.