Dinner time. Hilary is off at book club.
It's a book about a child soldier in Sierra Leone. Grisly.
Such things really happen.
Meanwhile, cool air is wafting through the screen door, which is open for the first time this year.
A dog barks in the distance. A cardinal chirps.
A point of correction: the screen door isn't open—though there would be no harm if it were at this time of year, presuming our chipmunks didn't decide to make an unexpected house call. No, the sliding glass door is open, allowing the breeze to pass through the screen door.
A mourning dove is cooing from the woods beyond the neighbor's house.
It's the first day of spring. Not according to the stars, but simply because I say it is. I can feel it. And in honor of the occasion, I've made myself a salade niçoise.
A confession. I made the salad, not because of the weather or the stars, but because there were two old potatoes in the pantry and I said to myself, "What should I do with those?"
I picked up some lettuce, green beans, and Kalamata olives at the grocery store on my way home from the library, and I was in business. Hard boiled eggs, canned salmon. But strange to say, I decided not to add one of the essential ingredients: anchovies. Maybe because I was cooking for one and didn't feel up to eating the whole can. The red onion I simply overlooked in my haste to eat and enjoy.
As the sun drops, the light grows richer, but the air gets colder. I really ought to close that door.
Instead, I head to the closet to find my fleece vest. This association of "inside" and "outside," daylight and shadow, cool and warm, is simply sublime. Not to mention the sounds of the neighborhood.
And having made and eaten the salad, I can see how "right" it was for today of all days.