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Getting up early and filling cloth bags full of long white radishes, so fresh you question the boundary between life and death.
The sound of trunks clunking shut over tightly bound sleeping bags and grocery sacks of marshmallows.
Wisps of steam from coffee cup, tail pipe, the breath of familiar mouths.
Waking up confused at the roughness of dog tongue in your nose.
Walking barefoot on warm cement to get the mail and saying hi to an old lady walking her beagle, who sniffs your toes as you walk by.
Getting hugs � not just regular hugs, full body embraces: thighs, bellies, cheeks touching, and usually a little swaying or lifting of one another back and forth.
The feel of good dirt under your fingernails and watching worms flop in your palm.
A stranger that genuinely smiles at you.
Bumper stickers. Used book stores. Sprinklers and paint sets.
Garage sales in your pajamas at five in the morning with no particular intention to purchase that ancient rocking horse or canoe.
Almost too-hot baths with a book you wouldn�t mind getting wet in one corner.
Fresh, brisk winds on blackberry-warmed evenings.
Someone who holds the door for you as they leave the tiny coffee & tea-slash-bead & knickknack shop.
An absence of exit signs.

Reviews

[deadeyes]

Sami - I like this almost Joycean string of images that bubble up in an endless froth of home-cooking. You've invoked a synaesthetic party with "good dirt," and "watching worms flop in your palm;" your trinity of wisp-makers, blackberry-warmed evenings...these are all rich with sensation. I look forward to reading some more of your writing.

Don't know if you want criticism or not, so I'll take a risk. :-) It took me a second to get past "question the boundary between life and death." Perhaps a little over the top for what otherwise was a genuine and fulfilling read. Good work!