travel day...

when uncle sugar and i met, we were babies. but, man, did we have dreams.

that boy promised me the world, and i believed him. he said we'd travel it. he said i'd love it. he just knew it. because a girl like me who fell in love so easily with wind chimes and tiny chess sets and everything else upon which her eyes fell was made to see something besides illinois.

we'd raise our someday babies we weren't even sure we needed everywhere, so that they'd learn to love the world and america's place in it. he said they'd love it. he just knew it.

one of those someday babies would most certainly be named esmé. when she sang, her voice would be distinctly separate from the other children's voices. it would have the best upper register, it would be the sweetest-sounding, the surest, and it would automatically lead the way. her smile would be oddly radiant. her observations not of a smart aleck but that of a truth-lover. she might even wear an enormous-faced wristwatch, its face much too large for her tiny wrist. the first rolex he would buy, in fact, would be hers. he just knew it.

i tell uncle sugar all the time that he's a good man. this irks him to no end.

a good man, he snarls with that deviled grin of his. that's so lame. {i'm censoring him here. because mackin ink is not the place for his saucy language.}

i've got to agree with him, i guess. he's not a good man. we've had our share and maybe even yours, too, of squalor. when he is naughty, there's no one naughtier. but when he's half as good as he can be, there's no one who even comes close. and when he's perfect? well. that is that.

he promised me the world. we've traveled it. i've loved it. those someday babies we weren't entirely sure we even needed? we've three, and it turns out we needed them desperately. they love the world, too. and one is named esmé.

he's right. he's not a good man. he's extraordinary.

crazy for the french rentals from appartement blanc paris, discovered first by a little hamster. so many gorgeous photos on appartement blanc, but the sunlight dancing in her memories made me smile. and if you've never read for esmé -- with love and squalor, you might want to reconsider this. j.d. salinger, january 1919 - january 2010.