Wish List (a new essay)

• Dirt that exists for my hands to sink into. Cool & pebbled, birthing sunset tomatoes and prickly cucumbers. I would never wear dusty olive canvas gloves in exchange for the sense of touch. I will go barefoot and carry lines of dirt in the cuticles of my toenails. I will learn what it means to sweat.
• A dark tan, short-waisted trench coat with lots of brass buckles, zippers.
• Fireplace, stone or brick, that holds real logs, burns licking, snapping flames. We will chop our own firewood, heaving the cold axe like a pendulum, the silver blade whistling past my ear. The cold air cracks with a splinter, bits of wood flying into my red flannel shirt. My pulsing heart, my heavy breath visible in November air.
• The lightest, most unobtrusive laptop computer ever made, so that I may carry it on my palms to the top of a hill I can call my property to survey the land the only way I know how.
• Only organic linens--cotton or bamboo sheets and towels, soft and unassuming in sage, mint, sea mist green or ivory. Neutral. Safe for his skin.
• All four seasons to their extreme. Mountains covered with winter snow, penetrating ice; blustery autumn explosion leaves, crisp apples and cracking pumpkins; dewdrop-wet shining grass, pastel tulips, purple croci, birds and blooming spring with a front porch; sweaty, sandy wave-crashing summers of sea, kelp and conch shells. Montana winter, New Hampshire autumn, New York spring and California summer. Four hourses.
• Real pearls, long, looping strands of iridescent pink and white oyster babies.
• A claw-fotted bathtub, big enough for a family, in the middle of a grey marble bathroom, with antique gold faucets, surrounded by water-smoother river stones.
• A jungle zipline tour--to speed like a blur of light through electric green tropical canopies and feel leaves almost whipping against my bare legs, almost.
• To always live near water that moves. To continue the spiritual path of Naticook Lake, Cayuga Lake, Hyalite Resevoir, and the Pacific Ocean.
• A room full of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full. A ladder on castors and a giant chair.
• An enormous white wooden desk, in a room with hardwood floors and a heathered blue rug, set in front of a wall of French doors. The view of the water, always windy, blue- and white-striped umbrellas, old driftwood paths to walk when I cannot sit at the desk any longer.
• Knowledge of the night sky. To know in my bones and speak out loud words like cassiopeia, ursa major, sagittarius, orion.
• The ability to create a rainstorm, to orchestrate the volume and timbre of thunder, and the hue of grey in the sky. Escaping into enormous thunderstorms that last all day, a stack of books and a warm mug. Wishes for water, bathrub, library, fireplace are all born of this unending thirst for a long-lasting rain.

to be continued...