just sweetness

When I go home I want to make cupcakes and frost them in pretty colors, with sprinkles and flowers and candles, and have a tea party. Cai can come, and Iain, and Adity, and Eva, and Robin, and Alex-le-chat (and Heather, if she could, and since this is my imagining, she can), and Matt, and Michael, and Yue, and Emilse--and Mauro, and Shahab and his family, and Kezia and Rory, too. I'd like it to be evening and I'd like there to be little lights in the trees, and the light of the candles. And music--singing--and Adity reading chapters from Alice in Wonderland, and poems. And we would all be together in the yard at 6A.

And I want to go to the store for staple foods for my new house, using the bag I made tonight for groceries, and the CO-OP one I got when I lived in Venice, and come home to two of my favorite economists, laugh with them, put things away, and cook with them. And hang my laundry out to dry in the late afternoon sunlight.

And late at night I'd like to hear a pebble at the street-facing window, and I'd like to sit in my high-up nest of a room with you and talk about everything and nothing by the glow of those same tiny lights, and fall asleep under the quilt I made of old kimonos, and wake up in the morning to a mug of tea you've made just-right. And go to my desk and sit down and write. And know you're there, even when you're not in the room.

And later, I'll show you what I've made, and you can show me. In the room where I've hung my prints and paintings and pictures, an old gilt mirror Kezia gave me; where I've set the desks in front of the windows and fixed the action on my guitar, where we've aired laundry and read one another poems. And we'll go downstairs (where there are wonders: economists; goldfish, maybe; a record-player; bread being made). And outside it will be one of those perfect English afternoons with just enough light and warmth left in it for us to take the bus downtown and look at pretty things in the shops--and then start home.