I dip in and out of the last dream, aware of Bob’s quiet breathing, then not, until—poof—we are both awake, blinking like robots in a lighter-than-usual room. We have slept in on the long day. Tomorrow will be the longest. “6:20,” I murmur after looking at the 30-year-old travel clock that used to sit on Bob’s side until my timex indiglo stopped lighting up.
We roll down the sheet and the light patchwork quilt Bob had made for us in Ghana, and turn towards each other. It’s sheet-washing day, Saturday, so we leave the bed unmade when we get up. I start undressing pillows while Bob goes into the kitchen to heat up our coffee. We open the windows and discover an unexpectedly cool day. 58°.
We’ve seen 101° this month and discovered that 92° is almost refreshing as long as the humidity is low. A full body reset. Seems we are ready for summer.
I have mixed feelings about the solstice. I don’t want the days to get shorter. Well, a little shorter might be good. At 14 1/2 hours, they drag on more than I’d like.
Can’t they just stay the same? That’s what I love about the tropics, I tell anyone who asks. I love the predictability of a twelve-hour day. I’m not into roller coasters.
“Take it one day at a time,” Bob says when I bring it up. “Be here now.” He’s been doing a lot of meditating, been reading about mindfulness and non-duality. He is very chill these days, extremely patient, and I am learning from his good example.
As retirees, we have the luxury of time. No need to stress unless we cram our calendars, which we tend not to do. Time is fertile ground for mindfulness. I will savor my early morning goosebumps without dreading the sweaty summer afternoons ahead. We can afford to be chill. No need to sweat that which has passed or has yet to pass.
