White Wine Sangria on a Friday

I hear the music in the background, as if the sound is reaching me underwater. The green on the trees, the plants, and the stems of flowers is as if a painter forgot to mix in the brown or the yellow or the blue or the orange to make it less fluorescent. The white blossoms I wish were cherry blossoms are just beautiful and just delicate enough for me. The young spring air brushes against me, as I sip on a white wine sangria, infused with seasonal fruit. I feel both cliché and blissfully content.

Life really is just a series of up and downs, especially for those of us lucky enough to experience both.

I think one year back, two years back, five years back, and I think about all the things that are the same and all of the things that are so different. All of things I predicted, and all of the things I never could have imagined. All of the memories I wish I could unearth out of the depths of the universe and then replay, and all of the memories I wish I could erase until the paper was rubbed raw. All of the ups, all of the downs, all of the limbos, and all of the indescribables.

So I sip on my sangria as the music changes to some frankly bizarre country-folk music, and I think about how grateful I am to enjoy the lightness of my lungs and the white blossoms that aren’t cherry blossoms graze the fluorescent green trees.


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