There are times when I seem to forget certain words, not because of encroaching age since I am younger than the morning dew, but who knows why. Distraction? Anxiety? Sunspots? This morning, I forgot the word “decaffeinated” when ordering my iced coffee–not what it meant, just to say it–and ended up with with a gigantic terrorist bomb of jittery mayhem with added half-and-half and one packet of raw sugar. I was meeting my friend Isa–and her companion, a baby who kept reaching for my cup, which gleamed entrancingly in the sunlight, sending little prisms of color sparking across his face.
Clutching our drinks, we left Starbucks and strolled to a park, where that baby snatched a bag of almonds from somewhere and ran off down the path, looking back to see if we were watching, smiling like a goon, and running a little further, his arms thrown wide to the world in front of him with the infantile confidence that we had his back. I can’t think of the last time I threw my arms wide to a world, this one or any of the others, but I am working at it.
There is another word I seem to be forgetting, which describes sitting on a park bench with a sweet friend on a bright summer morning, people and dogs passing amiably by, giddiness rising in my body as caffeine hits bloodstream, a baby laughing while he plays in the sun. I think it is something like “magic.”