salad days

My salad days are now. They aren’t just reserved for youth, as Shakespeare and the Brits would say. No. My salad days are later on than expected. Like an Italian feast. Just when I thought the main course was over (having found it tough and heavy) – what’s this? Fresh, optimistic, cherry tomatoes from the garden that burst into your mouth – salad.

I’m forty five – holding hands down the street, and he stops to kiss me passionately. A girl walks past us and giggles and says, “Aw, too adorable.” How many times have I been that girl, walking past, sighing a little whimsically? My fellow and I keep saying, “This has never happened to me.” “This has never happened to me!”

I came to the point of believing the feast was all over for me. Just a cup of espresso to sip away, the contemplative spinster.


It’s amazing to me how many small miracles can happen in a day when you spend it with the right person.




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