As it should be...

It's one of those rare Southern nights when neither the heat nor the air-conditioner is on. On a night like this, the cool breeze is shifting the yellow clouds of pollen from trees to air to my bare feet on the back deck, and all is as it should be. (It's one of those nights that fifty years ago would've been spent on what was known in the South as a "sleeping porch," something I've always imagined I've wanted.)

Do you know that I used to recognize a mockingbird as a harbinger of rightness? Like, for instance, if I saw a mockingbird cross my path, it was as if I believed that I was exactly in the right place in my life? Like everything was aligned correctly? It was like the opposite of seeing a black cat slinking. It was the feeling you get when you balance your checkbook and the total, after all that figuring, actually matches what the bank statement says. But now it's not the mockingbird that means my balance (although I still hold it on high, thank you Harper Lee), but nights like this. The breeze, the bare feet, the home-made soup dinner, and the after-said-dinner-cocktail served on ice outside.