Wistful Thinking

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep." The pine cones that plop down from the trees crunch under my feet, the delightful mess that is the forest floor smells so familiar, so warm, yet so mysterious. The tall trees cast shadows so melancholic, it is a place that the sun’s rays have managed to only sliver through. But. It is not a sad place, it is a calm place, a place with leaves that always drip from the incessant rains. Not downpours, just showers, showers that are gentle and kind and refreshing, cleansing, even. Just enough to remind you what fresh feels like, smells like.

The indiscernible path meandering through the trees is visible only to the sharpest of eyes. But I pick my way through it easily, for I know every twist, every break, and every turn like the face that stares back at me in the mirror. The forest clears just a bit, a wee bit to make way for the house. A delight crafted over a decade out of wood and love and sweat and laughs and broken nails. I push the door open, the holly you hung last Christmas is still there, still green. That’s what I love most, I think, the suspension of time in this place. Like nothing ever changes, like nothing ever will.

The deliciousness of vanilla fills every nook and cranny, assaulting my senses in the best possible way. You always wonder how, not a cake in the house, yet the warm, pastry-like aura hangs in the air, all.the.time. I know the secret, I smile to myself, I have taken my obsession with it too far – vanilla body wash, vanilla body mist, vanilla body butter… not to mention the vanilla tea lights, the vanilla essence, the vanilla incense. Also, the vanilla sachets hidden under the pillows. And the couch cushions. And the curtains. Haha, you will never know why we always smelling warm, and inviting, and comfortable, and rich, and just. so. damn. yumm.

Ah, the couch. That damn couch will be the undoing of me. Of all my resolutions to get things done. It… envelops me. That’s it! That’s what it does. It envelops me in a warm embrace, that is not too tight to be confining, not too lose to be impersonal, just the right amount of squeeze. I slide into the embrace and tuck my cold toes under myself, the window is open, I like the nip in the air, the petrichor that mingles with my vanilla. And you let me leave it open despite the sniffles because you have noticed the restlessness that creeps over me when it is not.

The soft knit of the coverlet flutters onto my lap, vintage colors, as mellow as freshly-churned butter. My book is right there. My fingers graze the spine, my eyes graze the black and white cover art, my soul smells the timeless fragrance of the pages. The owl bookmark is lifted right out, I’m surprised I finished 200 pages last night before I drifted off. I read a few words, my mind goes back to recall the story, and then cuts out everything else in the world except the warm hand that reaches out from the other couch. Absently, I take the hot chocolate proffered. Absently, I take a sip and let it burn my tongue. Absently, I intertwine my fingers with yours as I lose myself to the delights of Sherlock’s adventures.

P.S: This is where I want to be. May, please take me here. Please?