Cooking

I hear his whistling drifting down the hallway into the study where I am sitting.  The soft sound floats in and gently dissolves into my body – swirling around my heart.  I start to feel light, soft and warm.  As I float off I am abruptly brought back to earth with a thud and a crash.  It sounds like he has dropped some pans, and he exclaims a definitive “shit” as calamity happens around him.  I am bracing myself for the loss of that lovely feeling that was there only a moment ago when I then hear him quietly sing “take it easy, take it easy” in his soft and ever-so-slightly-off melodic tones.  He is working at regaining his composure.  His sweet whistling sound again drifts through the house restoring the peaceful relaxed ambiance of only moments ago.   His whistling mingles with the rumble of the washing machine and the rustle of what sounds like the plastic bags that encase the vegetable in the fridge.  In the next moments I hear a knife rhythmically hitting the chopping board.

My husband is busy cooking us dinner as the evening starts to settle after a warm spring day in our little town nestled below the mountains.  He is in his own little world, singing and whistling as he crafts our next meal.  The sizzling of the frying pan stimulate the juices in my mouth.  My lungs inhale and fill up with a sense of satisfied cool air.

This life we share together.  This man who is standing in our kitchen now – with his long grey hair and his broad shoulders.  This particular afternoon as the sun fades and the sky releases the blue to the night.  This end to this day as a solitary bird sings outside and the man whistles in the kitchen. This day is good.

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