Amy has some great friends. I was invited to tag along for a group dinner on a week night. It was a house party in the back yard with candles placed in small tin buckets and music pouring out of an ipod. This is the second time I have been to this home. I determine that I adore this couple. She is as naturally flawless and beautiful as a person gets. He is a funny, quirky, and handsome Brit. I know he is lucky to have her because he as so much as said so. I envy their love and their relationship. You can see it in her face when she looks at him. You see it in the way he clears her dishes and pours her more wine. I save their corks and I put them in my pocket. They are a talisman. I can look at the evidence later when I doubt this evening existed. I want the magic to continue and hope I become infected.

The Brits parents (Keith and Wendy) and brother (Warren) are at this dinner. I feel a recognized warmth. My family gives off the same heat. His parents are well versed in travel and art. Warren could read the phone book and Amy and I would swoon. They share their wonderful stories. I learn from this meeting. I love the sing song of the four accents. They have passion that is so lacking in others I meet. It flows like paint onto a canvas. They invite us to their home abroad. I know the offer is real and genuine. I feel safe here on this back porch. We talk about tea cozies. Wendy tells us about a ruffian named George that held a crush. Keith confirms her story and tells us how he won.

On this back yard porch we explore ourselves. A little bit of fiber fill is pulled from Amy and I. Some seams pop. Questions are asked. Amy admits that too many people are reading our blog and she feels like shutting down. I reveal that I read too many books at once and I fail to finish them.

Harmless stories that really appear inconsequential. Keith admits that he has canvas on an easel that needs to be painted when he gets back home.

He retired so he could paint.
He has been putting it off.
When I ask why he says, “Because there is no time really.”

I hear his response as my own. “I don’t know why really.”

We all have some heavy coins in our pockets.

I feel that Amy knows there is more beneath his reasons for not painting. I feel that she knows there is more beneath my reasons for not finishing my books.

I feel loose pieces floating under my skin. I feel them like a wool sweater.

So later that evening I take it upon myself to ask St. Jude to help me. If I am a lost cause I might as well follow the leader of them. St. Jude is not giving me any answers but just more questions.

What is the harm in not finishing a book really? Who says I have to finish them if I don’t want to?

What if Keith doesn’t go home to finish his painting?

I don’t much like the thought of that.

Why should I even care? While we all shared a fun evening that hardly qualifies me to demand that this man go back to England and paint a picture upon my selfish insistence.

My thoughts gush like shallow creek water. The water spills and splashes up and over all shapes and forms of stones.

I want Keith to start and finish his painting.

I already know that I would travel to England to view it.