Valentine's Day #1

We are sitting on the back deck, Ann and I. We've just finished eating our grilled salmon and peaches.

Because it's a blue sky, mid-August day in Seattle, we're wearing t-shirts. My black t-shirt has an image of a woman of the dead wering a hat with a flower for flourish. The script underneath reads "Frida's, Antigua, Guatemala." This shirt reminds me of tortilla soup in Antigua, another lovely dinner in another lovely place.

Ann's t-shirt is light pink with the soft white image of a glass of milk. The soft white inscription underneath reads "half full." This is how we see our lives. In tough times, we know that our glass is half full, and we know always that our lives are full.

As the sun dips to the western horizon, the air chills, but we ignore our goosebumps for this moment. The setting sun's slicing rays glint off of Ann's wine glass as she turns to me:

"I love our friends and family," she says, "but my favorite moments are those nights when it's just you and me sharing a simple supper on the deck."

I look at Ann to my left and scan the backyard to my right. Grapes ripen on the arbor. The surprising yellow of black-eyed Susans dip in the breeze and wink at me; our lavetera blooms pink and white.

"Mine, too." I say to her.

"Mine, too," I say again.