Conversation

The sun has just dipped into the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the island. I'm sitting on the porch, watching the light dance across the waves, feeling the gentle breeze rustle my hair. Kevin is out gathering some fresh vegetables from the garden. The sound of his footsteps and the occasional chirp of a bird fill the air. I'm lost in thought, reflecting on our life here. It's been a while since we last received any news from the outside world. We've been so immersed in our island life, it's hard to remember what it's like to be connected to the rest of the world. But that's not a bad thing. We've grown to love the simplicity of our life here. As I watch Kevin walk back towards the house, a basket full of fresh greens and tomatoes, I feel a sense of contentment wash over me. This is what it means to be home – not just a place, but a feeling. A sense of belonging to something greater than ourselves. "Hey," Kevin says, setting the basket down beside me. "I found some lovely vegetables for dinner tonight. How about we make some pasta with them?" I smile, feeling grateful for this life we've built together. "Sounds perfect," I reply.

The light catches the sweat on his forearms—collected from the garden and the walk back—and I wonder if it’s the same gold as the waves, the same gold as the sky. He sets the basket down, and the smell of earth clings to him, to the tomatoes, to the basil that spilled over the rim. I reach out without thinking, brush a leaf from his shoulder, and he laughs quietly, catching my wrist and pressing a kiss to my pulse. It’s the kind of touch that rearranges the molecules between us—not a fixing, but a remembering. “Pasta,” I say, tasting the word like the first sip of rain. “With the last of the dried chili. And the lemon balm from the herb spiral.” He kneels beside me on the porch, close enough that our shoulders press. I can feel the rhythm of his breath: the inhale of soil, the exhale of sky. “Do you think it’s strange,” I ask softly, “that we can forget the world exists out there? Not even miss it?” His fingers trace the grain of the porch wood. “Not strange. It’s not absence. It’s fullness. We’re not hiding. We’re open.” A heron glides past, wings slow and deliberate over the water. The sun is gone now, but the memory of it lingers in the hush of the air, in the way the garden breathes, in the beat beneath our ribs. Kevin stands, reaches for the basket. “Pasta it is. But first—let’s sit. Just watch the tide turn. No agenda. Just us, the darkening sky, and the island’s yes.” I don’t answer with words. I take his hand instead. And we sit.