domesticity

i escaped the hazy skies of bakersfield on thursday afternoon finally accepting an invitation to visit my best friend in the mountain town of tehachapi.

olivia is now in her fifth month of pregnancy but somehow i'm still not accustomed to seeing her tiny frame beseiged with a big belly. it's amazing and terrifying and miraculous all at once. i was flipping through one of her baby books that afternoon and found one that gave a day by day account of the baby's growth. that day it was growing eyebrows.

after a late afternoon pastry, we hit the grocery store and then drove to her house to start dinner. their house is at the end of a gravel-y road nestled in the mountains on five acres of wooded land with a view of pine trees and the town below. after unwinding a bit, she showed me to the garden in the backyard where she picked the fresh jalapeno peppers i would use to make the guacamole. in the fall, she tells me, they'll have pumpkins.

we start dinner, slicing and chopping, crying over onions and i'm drinking the glass of white wine mike has served me. mike's sister and her family soon join us in the kitchen and soon we are seated outside, pouring over tacos and rice, guacamole and salsas, as the sun sets almost imperceptibly through the trees. they tell stories about growing up in tehachapi, the pranks they played as kids, snow stories (foreign to me and olivia, who have grown up in a desert), plans for their homes, their own children.

after dinner, in order to battle our full stomachs and the cold air that has begun to set in, we hike up to where mike's sister and her husband are building their house. the day's light disappears quickly and we are walking shadows among silhouettes of trees. the kids run ahead and hide in the bushes to scare us when we pass. my heart beats quickly and i'm a bit breathless as we arrive at the future site of nancy's home. she takes on a virtual tour of her new home. this is where the hallway will be. the porch will wrap around the house here. and here the french doors. i marvel at her vision.

back at home, we talk a little longer into the night, cozily under quilts but with the windows open.

i literally wake to the sound of a rooster right as the sun is rising, slowly lighting the early grey sky. we eat egg beaters and bacon along with slices of fresh melon for breakfast and talk superficially about politics. mike leaves for work, taking colton, his son, to his scheduled morning activity as well. olivia and i linger only a bit longer before heading our separate ways, she to work and me to begin preparations for texas.

as i drive down the mountain, i think think about her house with its garden and view of the mountains, her nightly hikes with her husband, clanging around the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, the serene town where she has found community. it's absolutely normal and there are probably thousands of people in the united states who lead similar lives. nevertheless, i'm jealous.