I am in my backyard.
The hammock moves gently, rhythmically with the weight of my body. A book sits propped up by a pillow on my lap. My eyes dart over words so familiar now, they are comforting. I could read a new author, a new book, but why risk it? I stick to one I know and love, for this time is precious and my mind wants only to wander, not to think.
Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks plays on repeat. A wine glass swings lazily from fingertips so relaxed it seems the glass will slip through them at any minute and shatter, destroying my peace.
It doesn’t though – not today.
The sun peeps through a gap in the trees and I squint up at the sky, watching the clouds move on.
‘To be born again, to be born again.’
The sun has come out just for me.
It’s all here – the sound of my children playing, the wry smile I get from his little corner of the garden as he watches me through the passion fruit vine.
I have made it. I am here. I am back.