this is my plan.

This is my plan: host a wild dinner, just once. To call it fancy is incongruous. If anything, it will be the opposite of elegant. Bare feet, old blankets to sit on, mismatched dishes and a guitar. Yes, a guitar, I think. I can't decide if it will be on the beach on hot sand in some rocky alcove, or tucked under tall trees with years like rings, or in the middle of a field with the sky spread wide. Wherever it will be, there will be fairy lights because I am nothing if not a romantic. I believed in fairies as long as I could, and I think I'd like a good light trail to settle under. I will wear a long skirt and bracelets on my arms and my hair will be long and down. I will serve homemade bread and a bowl of chocolate to dip the crusty end pieces in, and cheese, the melty, crusty, crumbly kinds. There will be fresh berries, mostly raspberries, and red red wine. We will have apple pie and strawberry rhubarb pie and the sweetest peach pie. Music, a guitar. I said that. Someone will play. We will sing, off key, perhaps, but we will sing loud and lusty and we will laugh. At the end, there will be a fire. I will dance. And you will be there. We will camp out there all night, drinking hot tea as the evening wanes and telling stories, true ones, the kinds that make your bones shake. And the stars will never look closer.