Things I'm appreciative of:

1. How easy it is to make a solid Aperol spritz at home [2 parts Aperol + 3 parts Prosecco. You're supposed to add a splash of club soda, but let's face it, that just gets in the way of things.]
2. Old movies. We grew up without television, and on Friday nights my dad would take us to the closest Blockbuster (when you live on a farm, that's a 15 minute drive), and he'd pick out a movie, which we'd tote home in its blue plastic Blockbuster cover. The four girls, in our matching pjs, would snuggle up and watch things like Casablanca and old PJ Wodehouse films and Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris. Our favorites were Doris Day and Fred Astaire movies and they still make feel me so comforted and happy. 

I’m sitting out here on my terrace, high above the street. Four stories below, the backyards of ground-floor apartments form a mosaic, dotted with outdoor grills and brick-bordered gardens. A man across the street sits in a lawn chair, reading a book. I can hear a girl talking on the phone. The couple next door is outside watering their geraniums in the waning sunshine. A pair of fat bumblebees twirl lazily overhead. From the street, the scent of warm chocolate chip cookies wafts up on the breeze.

I'm sitting here with a big mug of steaming tea. As it steeped, I stood, leaning with my hip against the counter. I held the honey over the mug, letting the amber liquid stream in for a beat too long, and my tea is sweeter than usual. Opening the fridge, I discovered that I was out of both cream (!) and whole milk (!). Sighing as if to say why must I endure such cruel deprivation, I poured in equal parts skim and almond milk. Let it be said: This does not taste as good as cream.

I usually call my mother once a day. I mentioned that to a friend the other day and they looked at me like I had some serious issues going on. I just like to talk to her. She's funny and wise. She's interested and interesting. She has a rare ability to listen actively, quietly encouraging me turn things over in my mind, like I'm panning for gold, like my thoughts are a handful of sand from a stream bed and I'm sifting out the debris until a kernel of something true appears flat in my palm.