Insouciance

When you're sitting on your sofa next to the window, Sunday's warmth pouring over you what Saturday could not contain. You're staring into entire universes, cities with colors dripping off their sleeves, and smiles too roguish to decipher. The neighbors are walking arm in arm and dogs are distracted by their wandering tails. You reach for your next sip of coffee, and it's absolutely delicious. The barista was on point. Remnants of her story had wandered into your mug, like a wise elder's feline words. You can taste the patient gardener and his beguiling gardenias (Southern belles are never that fragile and always flirt for a reason), and the rhythmic hum of the cicadas. With your next sip of coffee, instead of wandering down the next cobblestone path, the headlines of the newspaper on your table knock loudly enough to shake loose any remaining scents and their festive grip. Three more kids. Two more bans. Suddenly you realize that insouciance is elusive. More importantly, you realize that insouciance isn't where you want to be.