Joy & Tonic

My blood orange gin and tonic fizzes on the kitchen counter.
The orange tint of the cocktail hisses in the stillness of the waning hour of Friday night.

I sit alone at the bar.

The bubbles push their way to the top of my Aunt Nancy’s fox-hunt-pattern lowball glass.
I watch in wonder as they pilot their way to the surface.

Bubbles escape from the glass into the air of my condo — just as quickly swept away toward the laundry room by a gust of cool air from the open balcony door.

The air brings welcome hints of spring.
We Southerners have survived another winter.

My gaze shifts back to the tiny bubbles forcing their way through and around the ice in the glass.
I wonder if that’s not what joy always seems to do.

Force its way to the top —
Around the frozen pieces of us.
Bursting out of the icy depths.
Drawing us higher.

Up.
by force or by design, I can’t say—

I take a sip.

Mmm. Citrus.