A great day for mimosas

Bois 1920's Oltremare smells like dried flowers and tea leaves that's been steeped for a long time. It would taste too sour, like a concentrate. The fragrance crams you in a van with seven other kids en route to a swanky resort for a summer outing. It's the one with white hammocks and villas with wood sidings. Perhaps an occasional wireless speaker, but otherwise a very quiet place. There's a pitcher of orange juice in there, lemons, lots of citrus, ice cubes bobbing, clinking as it's stirred by harried moms wearing plain blouses and floral dresses. Some dads set-up the charcoal grill from a distance. Or the tent. Some kids apply mosquito repellent to ward off pesky insects. Sometimes its smell reminds you of this car freshener from the '90s: the yellow pine tree made of felt that I've seen in most cars, stuck on the windshield, only less potent, more fleeting and appealing. But it's not just car freshener: it's the humidity, that warmth from faux-leather seats sat on for hours in long trips, really long trips that make butts numb.

Contexts



Sometimes a song draws a curtain the first time you hear it - is that the right term: obfuscate? Only when you fry sausage and eggs and rice for breakfast and the great morning had you singing that song for no reason - that same song you've known for years - will you realize something about it. You'll be surprised at the lyrics. You'll be surprised about what it means. Something about mortality, about about breakfasts with the five-year old, about greeting mornings, good or bad, with a hug. Today, the song wants to figure out what life means. Tomorrow, it could be different.