I turned the light off last night with only a handful of pages left to read in my book. Trying to tightrope my way through not wanting to stop reading, but not wanting the book to end. 

You wouldn’t think I’d still feel it after so many years, but as June opens, I’m on the final bus of the school year, about to enter summer vacation. No longer tightly gripped, papers fly through open windows, dancing to our new found freedom. We encourage the tech student who’s driving our bus to take the long way, knowing all too well, the minute we step off, it begins. And of course we love summer, but this space just before, with all of its anticipation and wonder, may be the most magical of all. So we hop up and down the aisle of this yellow moving beast. Green seat to green seat. Shouting our hopes and plans. Arms clinging to sweaty shoulders, then out windows, waving to a summer that waits at the end of this gravel road. 

I make my way slowly to the front, as the bus driver pulls out the stop sign beside the mailbox that holds my last name. I take the giant steps one at a time. The gravel crunches underneath my bumper tennis shoes. He releases the sign and pulls down the road. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I knew I was standing in something sweet. Not after. Not before. Just here. 

It’s harder to get there now — this sweet spot. But I aim for it daily. Sipping my coffee. Tasting the lavender honey on my toast. Lacing my shoes. Stepping onto the gravel path, I hear the crackle under my feet, and I smile.

I’ll finish my book today and start a new one, but for the moment I’m just going to stand here, neither waiting or even beginning, just breathing in the sweet spot.