In twilight we sit on our perfect blanket that stretches over a wide section of  grass, surrounded by concert-goers like ourselves; some are just arriving, others are touring the nearby gardens. This is the last event of the annual jazz festival; the musicians have already begun to play lively Latin rhythms with a light overlay of strings and bongo drums. 

We placed our blanket here earlier this afternoon, selecting a location near the river, not too far from the concert stage. I wondered aloud if our blanket might be moved by someone who coveted our spot, but you told me not to worry, to trust in providence. We left the blanket behind, and spent the afternoon walking the grounds and canoeing, laughing and planning our days ahead. When we returned, the blanket was still in place, just as you had predicted.

Now we lie on our blanket and watch the sky above us overpaint itself with deeper, thicker layers of blue, building slowly to opacity.  We hold hands and talk softly, surrounded by swells of sound, motion, and color. You tell me about your Christmas traditions, about the special foods for the occasion that take hours to prepare. Your voice suffuses me with its sweet, soothing tones, its husky timbre; it curls around me, flows within me, traversing flesh and bone, stirring my spirit.

By nightfall, the sky becomes bright with stars – diamonds set in a darkness softer than velvet. Music plays around us; people clap off and on, but we are too busy to notice. I am touching your fingers, speaking tenderly into your proffered ear. I know it will always be this way between us – quiet simplicity amidst chaos, a profound affinity that transcends time, space, physical distance.

At the concert’s close, the sky explodes with light and color – bright yellow-blue, bright orange-gold fireworks that shoot upwards, surging and expanding to the heavens. Their dazzling flames rise as high as can be seen, hold motionless in the atmosphere, then splinter into separate streams of color that sizzle slowly back to earth. Fiery sparkles fall downwards on all sides of us; they seem to almost reach out and touch us as we lie together, intertwined, on our perfect blanket.

(excerpt from “Whitegate,” published by Liz M. Weiman © 2000)