Six more days until I am flying over the Pacific Ocean towards my husband's homeland, the breathtakingly beautiful Rarotonga. (The Cook Island's main island). My excitement and impatience is fuelled by my memories of our trip in my uni days, when we lived for two months surrounded by paradise, I was nineteen, carefree and we were so in love. We still are. More than ever before. I am not so carefree perhaps, but while I am there, I will be.
And this time we have a little bungalow all to ourselves, that our big-hearted in-laws are opening up for us to stay in. And we're married. And I have feasts and ocean and sand and luncheons and parties and celebrations to look forward to, all drenched in that glittering sun that hovers above the clear water and white sand.
Sometimes I look at my life and don't know why I have so much. So much love, comfort, peace in my life, so much of everything; and others have nothing. All I can comfort myself with is that I don't deserve it, no-one really does, and so the burden of earning it all is eased off my shoulders for those few minutes that I remind myself.
And then the mists of worry begin to take over and taunt with their questions of "Do you really think this will last? Enjoy it while you can, because one day in your near future you will have a plate full of sorrow and misery and you will be laden with all the grief you missed in your youth."
Tell me I'm crazy.