It’s early evening, dark and snowing very heavily . . . has been all day . . . I’ve twice shoveled the drive. The chessboard is still set from a weekend game, Theo and I playing very intense, very serious and very middle-talent chess. I don’t think either of us aspire to be better players. We value our evenhanded mediocrity and therein lies the intensity of our competition.
A log fire snaps and pops in the grate and my Labrador snores softly on the floor in front of the couch. Upstairs, Misha talks in Czech on her cell phone, the soft murmur of foreign language comforting to my ear, a confirmation of my having left the busyness of business for this quiet pond in the middle of Europe.
I am as close to complete happiness as I can remember. It’s my habit when such moments strike me, to put aside what I’m doing, raise my eyes and my consciousness to take it all in and commit it to memory.
My life is very good and I know it, but then I’ve known it all along.