The Pier

There. That should do it.

She likes her oats extra creamy, so I let them linger over the heat another minute before adding walnuts, raisins, and pumpkin seeds. A thin ribbon of maple syrup vanishes into the mixture. I spoon everything into her favorite gray ceramic bowl. The one with speckles beneath the glaze and a rim that wavers just enough to remind you it was shaped by hands. Steam tumbles over the edge, sure as the sunrise. I set diced strawberries on one side. Two eggs folded into a soft omelet on the other.

I carry the wood tray into the sunroom, careful not to disturb the little arrangement I’d created. She’s already disappeared into her novel, one finger tucked between the pages while she reads, lost in another world. A soft cotton blanket covers her legs. Her faint smile makes me wonder about the story unraveling in front of her.

I set the tray on the ottoman and lift two of the larger windows. Salt air slips inside, stirring the curtains and allowing the room to breathe.

She shaped this room slowly, the way she built our life. Seashells we collected one walk at a time line the windowsills. Two white wicker chairs she found at a little shop downtown sit tucked in a corner with a blue vase between them she knew would catch the morning light just right. Every pillow, every plant, every little piece of driftwood on the shelf holds a story she remembers better than I do. Nothing expensive, nothing meant to impress anyone. Just things she loved enough to bring home. Years of choosing, arranging, and rearranging.

"Good morning, darling. Breakfast is served." I put on my pitiful English accent. Right on cue, she rolls her eyes. Then comes a smile.

"Were you thinking the pier today," I ask, "or just the neighborhood?"

She closes her book with a thumb marking the page. "The pier. The ocean breeze will do us good."

A moment passes. "And I'd like an adventure today."

"I'll see what I can do," I wink.

 I stand in the hallway for a moment, listening. The soft clink of her spoon against the ceramic bowl. A page turning. A soft sigh. The windows breathing with the breeze.

A grand start to the day.

By the time I step into the shower, I've already finished the rituals that have quietly become part of me. Meditation, stretching, slow movements. Years ago, it took discipline. Now it's simply how the day begins. The glass doors fog around me, I close my eyes and breathe deep.

She wants an adventure.

I begin building one in my head while the water runs.

We'll park at Linda Lane Park and take in the view. She’ll say the ocean looks different and I’ll try to convince her otherwise, and fail. We’ll wander toward the beach, taking our time—because time now lets us. We’ll spend several minutes watching the sandpipers run back and forth with the crashing waves. She never seems to tire of that. We’ll tell the stories we’ve told over and over, the ones polished smooth from repetition, like sea glass carried around in our pockets. The ones featuring our son and more youthful versions of us. Lunch will definitely be at Fisherman's. She'll order the crab cakes, chowder, and a crusty French baguette before the server finishes asking. I'll pretend to consider the menu before landing, once again, on the mahi tacos and house salad, with a bright, tangy vinaigrette on the side. As long as the day is still being kind to us, we'll catch the matinee at the Cabrillo Playhouse. Afterwards, we’ll take our long-awaited walk to the end of the pier. She'll lean on me and insist she's fine. I'll pretend to believe her and by evening, I'll end up half-carrying her back to the car.

I trade the bath towel for the khaki shorts she gave me for Christmas a few years back, and a faded blue polo that's seen more summers than I can count. They both still fit. And she says I still look handsome in them.

I make the bed, straighten the pillows, then wander back into the kitchen to find her washing the oatmeal pot before it has a chance to harden. She already filled our water bottles and tucked a light sweater into her canvas bag. I slip a couple pieces of candy into the front pocket for her to find later.

I pause at the kitchen window with a fresh cup of coffee. The gulls are already arguing over something I can’t see. Down the road, Mrs. Martinez is watering the same flowers she watered yesterday. The boys in the yard next to ours squeal with delight as they splash in a little turtle pool.

I turn and see the sunlight catch the silver in her hair, and I think about how strange it is that I can still picture her exactly as she was when we first met, even though the woman standing in front of me is the one I love even more.

The years have disappeared the way summers do. One day the evenings began arriving a little bit earlier. Days started unfolding differently. More pauses than plans. More sitting than rushing. Somewhere along the way, the calendar stopped feeling so urgent.

Now we enjoy unhurried mornings, afternoon naps—no apology, and we accept whatever the day decides to become.

Life has asked us to let go and hold on to things differently now.

And we notice more. A hummingbird paused midair to take a sip of nectar. Light filtering through leaves. The bright orange and yellow patches of lichen clinging to wet rocks and concrete.

But no matter what, we try to make a day of it. Morning walks. Good books. Card games. Fresh air. A new place for lunch now and then. And every so often, she wakes up with a little extra light in her eyes, enough energy to make impossible requests.

"I want an adventure today."

Those are my favorite mornings.