I already do.

"...but maybe we could live a short happy life."

I slowly close the book, my thumb no longer supporting a tremendous tome, 814 pages of tragedy and trauma happening to people who love and live so brilliantly. Finishing the book, I immediately think about my husband, his slight figure in all its poses in doorways or when driving or when kneeling to pet our dogs. He is miles away and I want to hold him closely. I want to run away with him and protect him. Run away from what, though? Protect him from whom? I text him that I love him and my mind reels with images of us in our futures. There I am on our couch, laughing at one of his jokes, my finger paused on a page in a book. There he is, reading up on updates about a rocket launch. There we are on our patio, pointing in surprise at a fireball in the dark sky. There we are, looking at the wreckage of yet another vehicle, hands on our hips. There we are again, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging as our little white dog yips at us. There he is, carrying groceries into the mud room. There he is, driving to work, listening to his favorite podcast. There we are in the kitchen again, our backs to each other as he cuts vegetables and I set the temperature for the oven. There he is, on a run down River Road during the golden hour. I want all the small things with him. I want to gather all the small things and compress them into a modest little gem to wear around my neck.

Sometimes you read a book, hear a song, meet a person, visit a new place, or see a film--and it inspires you to live a beautiful life. It inspires your jaw to settle into rest. It inspires your deadlines and expectations to suddenly appear silly. It inspires you to take whatever he or she said that one time and to let it gently roll away from you like a cloud and dissipate into vapor. It sings your body as compost or essence. It turns your reflection in the mirror into a reflection of your elemental self. Am I comfort? Am I kindness? Am I prudence? Yet the book, the song, the person, the place, the film--are all reminders of imperfection, yet momentum. You do not need to slide down the slick, mossy, thorned slope of comparison because we are not cut from the same cloth with the same sharp scissors. We are molded, passed through so many hands and held together with shrapnel.

Yes, the books, the songs, the people, the places, the films--always make me want to live a little, beautiful life.

Upon closing this book, I know that I already do.