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The audacity of some people. Our gas stove had way too many buttons and in search of the right one I lit the wrong stove top which in turn set my sleeve on fire. In blind, white terror I felt someone else take control of my body and take me over to the sink, running cold water all over my sleeve to put the flames out. But it was too late, and the room had already filled with the putrid smell of burning fibers, my sleeve gently smoldering in the after flames. I might have heard the smoke detector beep somewhere in the distance, but it could have been those chicks hatching as well, immediately needing me. Suddenly she was six again, watching her mother from the corner of the kitchen, baby fat legs stretched out against the cold tiles of the floor, her Barbie dolls spread around her like an army, she, the general. The room was eerily dark, with a spring thunderstorm just outside the window, threatening the strength of it with loud claps of thunder, the only light provided by candles. Small talk ensued and soon we’d arrived. I selected a special spot with not a soul in site. The silence was golden, the birds were singing and the atmosphere perfect. We placed our picnic hamper on the concrete table and opened the rug and spread it out on the soft grass. I asked her where she wished to sit. The concrete benches were most uninviting. She chose to sit cross-legged on the rug in her blue jeans. I followed suit and placed the picnic basket close by. I proceeded to open it and quickly removed the single red rose carefully packaged in a safe space and presented it to her. She was truly surprised and a little stunned. No words were spoken. I hurriedly removed the champagne, popped the cork and poured this ice cold celebration liquid into the two carefully wrapped champagne glasses, looked into her beautiful green eyes and said, “To us”. She smiled and repeated, “To us.” Everything was perfect and we both started to relax. After the first few sips she started to marvel.
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