In a nice place

that’s where I am. A place that has nothing to do with the number on the scale or on the tag in my jeans. A place where colossal gas prices and a traveling husband still haven’t managed to drown me in gloom. A place where cheerful little pumpkin plants sprout up with excitement.

I’m in a freshly greened, mildly warmed, carefree place.

A place teeming with mosquitoes. And Indian paintbrushes.

This place has children. Happy, dirty-faced children slurping on blue raspberry popsicles and lemon wedges, always asking for ice cream and usually getting it.

It has a warmish pool of water for splashing in, a hill for rolling down and a window pane on which I can trace the rain drops as they trickle down in fits of delayed April showers.

It’s a place I never knew I always wanted.

My home – my happy place.

I’m relishing every moment of the happiest place on earth – knowing it won’t always be mine.