Today, in my mind, I had friends and friends of friends, and complete strangers, over to my blue farmhouse.
We grilled on the patio, and near a tiki torch some musicians sat playing "Goodnight, Irene" as the sun went down and I finished a beer. A few folks fell asleep on our porch, which is fine because it is huge and furnished and affords a cool breeze. I brought them blankets and glasses of water.
In the yard, away from the sleepers, we played croquet by the light of a bonfire and enjoyed fresh strawberries and scotch before lying in the grass and talking about our hopes.
Today, in my life, I have no grill or patio or yard.
I slept until noon in my apartment before having a panic attack. Every friend I have had plans, and my mother turned down two cookout opportunities to do housework. My wife and I went downtown to eat guacamole.
Dozens of people sat smiling and drinking wine in the park across the street from our restaurant, and I cried and I was not them.
