For our six months, Eskimo took me back to the farmers market where I reciprocated the word “love.” (We joke that he said it first and I say it most.) He got me sunflowers there: brilliant little lions I cherished for a few hours before they had to be rescued from a bathtub of ants and potted in a plastic waste bin from Rite Aid. They probably aren’t surviving; I’ve never successfully grown a plant taller than the length of my forearm.
The end of summer means less time with Eskimo, who is a schoolteacher. That’s okay, because I’m starting a new job, too. I’m just enjoying these interludes together, like commas guiding me through a particularly dense paragraph, reminding me to breathe. Slowly. In, and out. Eskimo tells his kids to “smell the flowers,” then “blow out the birthday candles.” He learned that from another teacher. When he shared it with me, I was as exasperated as someone can feel without actually being mad. I encourage nearly every patient to practice deep breathing. Now I’m both pleased there’s a more relatable method of engaging people in this exercise, and annoyed I didn’t know about it sooner.
Something else I adore is snuggling, feet to headboard, watching Danger & Eggs on a precariously angled laptop. Eskimo calls this setup “dorm room style.” To my contented heart, it is adolescent and perfect.