The Gazebo

The Gazebo, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

A book and a beer accompany me to the back deck, sitting comfortably in an adirondack, under the attached gazebo. The two year old naps while the 8 year old mines for gold on his laptop in a world he is building one block at a time. The time away will likely amount to minutes, not hours, but it's nice to find at least a little time to be alone and even nicer when the weather cooperates.

The paperback on my lap has been sitting in the back seat of my car for a few months, waiting for an opportune time to tell its tale. I take in its faded cover and read the accolades on the back, but skip the one paragraph synopsis, afraid it might give away too much too soon. It begins with a foreword that I take for non-fiction, but then realize it is an attempt at realism in a fictitious account that wants you to believe it could have happened, like blair-witch-in-a-book.

The foreword finished, a breeze brushes my face and I look up. A rectangular light through the kitchen window catches my eye. I see my wife silhouetted by the bright interior of the refrigerator, such a strange perspective, like a voyeur, and an instant realization that I don't love her enough, that I don't appreciate her enough, that I let petty annoyances sour so many things between us. Do I deserve this house I am peering into, this wife taking stock of our food, this precious child sleeping, this son creating worlds rendered with the illusion of three dimensions?