Hermitage

At some point in my life, I had a dream. My dream was odd.

I dreamed of living on a mountain top in Vermont. Alone. Very alone. I dreamed of being a hermit. I wanted a house with lots of windows so I could see the maple sap and the trees turning and the snow. I wanted to write and never leave the house. I imagined that my only acquaintance would be the local boy that I hired to deliver my groceries.

That dream died a slow and painful death. First I realized that you have to do something other than just write to afford that house with the big windows and the mountain in Vermont. Then, I realized that I don't really like to be alone all the time. Then I got married and had kids and the dream was gone.

Or was it? It seems that a glimmery piece of that dream lives on. A tiny little smidgen of it that I still imagine in my mind's eye and smile over. The only part of it that holds much appeal for me right now.

The local boy.

Where, oh where, is my local boy with my groceries. Where, dammit!

Can you tell, it's grocery day. Grocery day with the stupid car carts and the list and the crowds of people and the screaming children (mine of course) and the figuring out if it's cheaper this week to buy a gallon of milk or two half gallons and wondering why it changes.

I hate grocery day. With the passion of a thousand suns. I cannot describe my utter loathing for grocery day.

Which is why it seems to be on Tuesday, because grocery day is supposed to be on Saturday, but who wants to ruin a weekend with it.

And so, on afternoons such as these, afternoons when I have put off making a list for the better part of the day, afternoons where I question whether we can survive without milk, bread, butter, sugar, juice or any kind of meat at all. These afternoons, I close my eyes and I picture a beautiful young boy with kind eyes and a red backwards baseball cap, who drives his beat up car up my long, winding drive to deliver my groceries.

He smiles, unloads his car, puts away my items and waits while I get his weekly wages. I work furiously, unfettered by the droning tasks of normalcy, then relax when he is gone, have a glass of wine and cook a simple, yet elegant dinner for one.

The dream lives on.