The sweet silence of a September morning. And it’s Monday and I’m not in a suit off to some stuffy office to live out my days in a cubicle. And that’s enough. Chet Baker singing Italian and the hum of a fan as light angles across my couch into my world. And that’s enough. The sky is an unbruised sheet of blue-white glaze. And that’s enough. My fag sends up easy arabesques of white wisps, curling, somersaulting, charming, too. When I lie on the couch and read, Murphy snuggles at my feet. There’s a quiver in her hind legs as she sleeps deeply in the comfort. I stroke her and hold her to quiet her quiver, and she quiets, and the quiver, whatever its cause, subsides. And, in her sleep, in her dreaming, she blinks. And that’s enough. I suck the coffee out of my coffee cup without rousing her.

The world might rush but it is pointless to try to catch it. And there is too much to miss if you are disposed to missing things. And you could live and chase and collect and count and still you will not have enough, there will not be enough, and, if you are disposed to missing things, there will always be more to miss.

But I have the luxury of this moment. I have the charm and the magic of all of this – my couch, September light, the quiet, a book, Chet, my sleeping dog; and it would be a shame to miss any moment dwelling on ones that have passed and ones that have not come to pass. This one, right here, is enough.