I love this. These Ray Lamontagne moments, where you’re just sitting at a bar with a glass of Rioja, listening to the soulful voice, the one that sings about flowers falling from hair, about how he’s been to hell and back, so most things bore him. It’s this sleepy lullaby that reminds you of your life—the one you’d always imagined for yourself. A life of laps and walking barefoot on soft spring grass as the afternoon turns to “just before supper” time. Braids and true love. Picnic blankets and Sundays in the park that you didn’t hold onto tight enough the first time they happened. A slow life of lingering kisses and eyes that want to stay closed and open at the same time.
A YEAR AGO: Desperate to Be a Housewife
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