Lately

I sit alone on the back porch

surrounded by pots of purple,

newly planted begonias

and the sky swirls with hints of pink

as the sun starts to set

over the rooftops and cable lines

of Wicker Park.

This is one of my favorite spots.

Home.

I’ve spent a lot of time here this past year.

Too much.

I sit with a bowl filled to the brim

with strawberry rhubarb crisp,

my mom’s recipe,

still hot from the oven,

topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream—

I knew I had to make it

the moment I stumbled across

fresh rhubarb at the farmer’s market.

I slowly savor

each bite,

letting the ice cream melt

faster than I really should.

I don’t care.

It tastes like summer.

I close my eyes,

spoon in mouth,

and let the silence of the past year

shift into the sounds

of my neighbors

playing Paul Simon on their guitars next door

and the hearty laughs

of the people eating

on the restaurant patio downstairs.

This is what the world feels like lately—

Flowers and dessert

and acoustic guitar

and laughs

and a little bit of magic.

I scoop another bite with my spoon.

I smile.

I sit alone on the back porch.

I’m not the slightest bit lonely.