Picnic Getaway

By Peter Bowden



The kitchen was warm with noon light, slanting across the counter where two bowls waited. Egg salad, rich and pale, with a dusting of pepper. Chicken salad, thick with sweet relish and a squeeze of lemon. The man worked quietly, the scrape of the spoon and the soft fold of bread the only sounds. The wicker basket leaned against the chair, yawning open, patient.

He wrapped each sandwich in wax paper, the kind that crinkled just right, and laid them side by side like small treasures. Bottled water, cold from the fridge, went in next, clinking against the jars of pickles and a small tin of cookies. A folded blanket, checked in blue and white, was tucked in last, still carrying the scent of last summer’s fields.

The day was calling, clear and sure beyond the kitchen door. Soon there would be the soft crush of grass underfoot, the stretch of sky overhead, and the hush of shared company. But for now, there was only this: the making of simple things, the quiet joy packed between two pieces of bread, carried carefully into the waiting afternoon.

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