I am a Hopeful Romantic

I leave travel magazines lying on my nightstand that nudge me toward forgotten stone villages in Italy and flea markets in Paris. I drink champagne from a crystal flute while I fold the laundry and listen to Edith Piaf on a record player when I load the dishwasher. I plant orange cosmos in a windowbox outside of my bedroom, roses beside my mailbox, and jasmine by my front door. I hand-write letters with fountain pens on pretty stationery, closing them up with a proper wax seal. I serve my husband his morning coffee in bed from a silver service, reminiscent of hotel room service in some far off destination. I regard sunrises, sunsets, moonrises, and moonfalls with wonder and awe and a sweet surrender. I feed the birds to lure their song to my mornings. I dream of train rides with vintage suitcases and window seats and hand-holding with someone who loves me. I journey in my mind perpetually to Jaipur bazaars and German Christmas markets and Moroccan party tents and Provence's lavender fields. I open my windows to let the wind blow the curtains, and I light a fire in the fireplace just to watch the light and the shadows it casts. This, and so much more...I remain the hopeful romantic...