I think that I will always be happy. Every breath, every sunrise, every leaf that unfurls. The old man with teary blue eyes who sits on the curbwall in front of my building resting with his similarly aged golden retriever. The birds that bathe in the dusty soil of my neglected deck planters. The sunbeam that crosses my kitchen floor for six minutes on sunny mornings.

We paddle out across the harbour on glassy water at sunset. The distant hum of freighter engines. The slapping of a seal tail against the surface of the sea. The low sun warms my calf muscles and cool water laps across my toes.

This is what I will remember of this time. Yes, the grocery store has barren aisles. And yes, the economy has faltered. But because of all of this, what emerges is startling clarity of values, needs, and purpose. There is still humanity. There is still life experience. There is still love.

After sunset, I turn on some American country music.

“Do you know how to two-step?” I ask him.

“Of course. I grew up in small-town Saskatchewan.”

He stands up and takes my hand and we dance a Texas two-step around the living room.

We eventually switch over to swing dancing. The room is warm, and in the midst of a swing out I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head and toss it onto the couch. He follows suit and there we are dancing with our skin pressed together and his muscles tanned and firm, my hair tied up in a ponytail. I’m wearing a black bra and bare feet, him in blue jeans and his overgrown mop of brown hair.

I am living in a movie. He is Ryan Gosling or Patrick Swayze, and the night is steamy and fragrant with fresh plum blossoms and cut grass. His smile and his hand at the small of my waist and moving together to the music.