Living the Life

My husband kisses me in his sleep.

How could my life possibly get any better?

I have to think– and think hard– before I can come up with an answer: if my parents lived in New York, that would make my life better. Owning an apartment would be nice. But mostly having my parents around. That’s the only potential improvement that I can wrack up.

When I finally snuggle into bed at night, I get a flurry of sleepy murmurs and kisses on my cheek. I don’t think my husband is speaking English. I don’t care, either.

If this isn’t nice, what is?

Last week we moved into a new apartment. We had ten friends freeze their butts off in order to help us. One of them brought donuts. Two of them had carried our TV to our new apartment. Two others brought their kids with them. The kids also helped load, pack, unload and unpack. Two of others helped me pick up a truck, spotted me through tiny alleys, occasionally gave me incorrect driving directions, but made sure I didn’t clip too many curbs or run over too many pedestrians. Our entire move was complete in two and a half hours.

If this isn’t life, what is?

We now live three minutes away from the grocery store, ten minutes closer to the pediatrician, and two minutes away from the bank.

I love basking in this feeling of gratitude and just marveling at my life with quiet wonder.

Four years ago I was alone in the world. And today, try as I might, I can’t find a single complaint to air.

Some people say they don’t believe in miracles. Then again, some people haven’t lived my life.


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