One day I’ll look back and think about my tired, bare feet swinging from the back of the car. My husband’s blue eyes tracking the clouds overhead, calculating what storms still lay ahead of us. I’ll think about reaching the top of a mountain and wanting to take a picture of Scott to remember the way he stood in awe, gazing at rock formations that predate us by a few million years.
Another year is officially in the books for the Hartsfields. I always love doing these posts to look back on the highlight reel of the past year–and the not so glamorous moments, too. No matter what’s happening or where we are, marrying that man is the best decision I’ve ever made. Whether we’re watching The Great British Baking Show or hiking up a mountain, I adore every minute we get to spend together. So without
This month, we officially spent our longest stretch apart since we got married. 25 days, but who was counting? (Me. And Ralph. And Scott.) Scott is (still) attending training at Maxwell Air Force Base for Squadron Officer School until the end of February. At first, in his absence it was nice to be able to focus on some personal projects like my blog and an extensive Goodreads to-read list, plus I had a long-anticipated trip
I thought home was this place you could buy. You could purchase enough throw pillows and rocking chairs and patio lights to make sure you had a sense for the word. When you were lost and someone asked where home was, you’d give them the address on your custom stationary. You’d say the blue Victorian on the street you love. The one with the white shutters and the tire swing out front. Take me home, you’d say, and you’d of course be trying to give directions.
I suppose it’s true that we contain multitudes. (Thank you, Walt Whitman.)
I cannot believe a year has already passed since our wedding day, but after taking this little trip down memory lane, I realize how happy we’ve been, simply filled to the brim with a quiet, overwhelming joy.
If my future grandchildren find this particular photo–me at twenty-six, holding a cat nearly as big as me–they might wonder: Is that Grandma’s cat?
The answer will be no. That is not Grandma’s cat.
A year flew by, but I’m back. Oh, how I’ve missed this blog.
I can’t be sure. I don’t really bet on timing anymore. Plans are something I’ve learned to write in pencil, not pen.
But I think this might be my last spring here.
It’s hard to catch a clear photo of him when he’s two thousand miles away. But oh my God, when he smiles. I don’t even know how to write about it.