I call them golden days, those days that just feel incredibly real and wonderful.  They don't even have to be perfectly happy days, but they have to be days that, I believe, you'd be sorry you took for granted.

Golden days.

I'll be having one on Thursday.  I'll get home from work, take my dog Ben out for a little stroll,  feed him,  sit beside him while he enjoys a bone filled with frozen yogurt and then grab my jacket and head down the hill to the village.  And dinner with my mom.

As I walk down the hill I'll smell the pittosporum in bloom and feel the spring air on my face.  I'll take a short cut down the "hidden stairs" and note the little blooms on succulents and that new green color on the ivy that grows along side the steps. A beagle will bark at me as I pass by her balcony.  Twirly lawn ornaments will spin and squeak.   

I'll hear the sounds of plates and forks in a house on my right as I pass by, and when I turn the corner I'll see on on my left people coming home from work or school, parking their cars at the curb and waving hello as they head inside after long days.

When I get to my mom's, I'll knock twice on the door and open it and walk in.  She'll come out to greet me and I'll kiss her hello. I always am amazed at how bitty she is!  Then I'll open up a bottle of wine she'll have set on the counter and I'll pour us each a glass, giving her the glass with the charm on the stem. We'll clink glasses and both say "Cheers," and then we'll head into the living room.

I'll walk past the dining room table where she will have set out a beautiful array of things to snack on. Always beautiful because of the colors of the foods and the way she displays them in bowls or on little plates.  Homemade liver paté, deviled eggs and sometimes guacamole.  There will be, as there always is, a great assortment of crackers.  And never the same old thing.  My mom loves buying new varieties to try. There will be little bowls of grapes or sliced apple,  maybe some radishes, and often pickles. Probably a couple of kinds of mustard,too.  Oh, and cheese.  Several kinds. ( If it sounds like a feast, that's because it is.)  Somewhere on the table there will be chocolate in some form or other. Mother's Cookies.  Reece's Peanut Butter Cups. Or Hershey's Kisses.  Nothing lacking.  Not one thing. 

When I sit down on the rocker I will move the big black stuffed dog off of the foot stool, relocate the basket of ivy off the side table to the floor,  set my glass on the coaster, put my feet up and then look across the room at my mother.  Whom I adore.

Golden days.  Days I'll never want to forget.  

She and I will talk DC politics and city council meetings.  We'll discuss the family and the grandkids.  We'll share our opinions on American Idol or Dancing With The Stars.

After about an hour we'll each fix a plate, grab a cloth napkin and come back to our chairs and eat.  And talk some more.  And the whole time I am there, I will be framing it in my heart and head as the most golden of golden days, because somewhere someone is missing her mother and I am sitting with mine. Somewhere, someone is missing his mother,  and I am blessed to be in the company of mine.

A Golden day.   A day that, I know, I'd be sorry I took for granted.

 

 

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