Heart 10.03.2013

February wind beat against the windows and made the trees creak all around us, as we kicked off our boots at your parent's cabin. Inside, candles flickered and danced on the walls, goblets stood full of sparkling cider, and a fire roared red-hot in the woodstove. Your mom leaned over the counter to turn the dial on the radio, moving through the static from NPR to settle on an oldies station. Lifting a wooden spoon (smeared with mashed potatoes) to her mouth, she took her husband's hand and danced around the kitchen singing:


Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Rockin' robin, tweet, tweet, tweet
Rockin' robin' tweet, tweedle-lee-dee
Go rockin' robin
'cause we're really gonna rock tonight
Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee


We smiled at them from the doorway as we finished tucking our mittens and scarves into the arms of our jackets, then you grabbed me and danced us across the living room, complete with twirls. After all, we had reason to celebrate.


As the song ended, we migrated to the living room and piled tiny plates high with sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, seedy crackers, and crusty bread. “How long has it been?”, I asked.
Your dad lifted your mom's hand to his chest and grinned. “Twenty five years!”


Goblets were lifted and clanged as the family dog shifted with a groan on the rug beneath our feet. “Here's to twenty five more,” you said. And with that, the cider was drained.