Pretense

Sometimes, when I'm laying in bed preparing to fall asleep, I'll turn off all the lights, curl up under my covers, and pretend I'm elsewhere. I read my books before going to bed and sometimes I get so wrapped up in the story that I forget that I live in good old Anderson, Indiana. I live elsewhere. I live in a warm house with big windows, pottery barn furniture, tile and wooden floors, big granite countertops, steel appliances, three spacious bedrooms, and a drive-in garage. I let myself think there's a happy dog sleeping on the foot of the bed because he's so exhausted after we visited my sister and played all day. The yard is big and trees rattle around me with their healthy green leaves moving in the wind. Tree frogs croak outside the window while crickets merrily chirp away. The sheets of my bed are cool and relaxing after a long day of teaching and seeing family. Tomorrow, I'm getting up to drink cider and read the daily newspaper while sitting at a dark brown table with four chairs for when I have guests over. I'm so caught up in this pretense that, for a moment, I'm in love with my life. I'm content.