Nothing seemed to go right today. I caught my finger in the door to the chicken coop and scared the chickens half to death with a string of profanities that would put a sailor to shame. I neglected the sweet potato pie I was baking, and it burnt to a crisp and filled the cabin with smoke. I dropped a stitch in a scarf and couldn’t find my crochet hook and had to unravel hours of work. Now the sun is setting, and Bon Iver’s not due home until tomorrow, so I decide the only sensible thing to do is curl up by the fire and try to drown the memory of my mishaps in a bottle of wine.
But then he comes blustering through the door, all manner of woodsy detritus swirling behind him, his hair and beard full of pine needles and burrs. ‘I tapped a whole mess of maple syrup! Let’s make pancakes for dinner!’ he exclaims joyously. Just like that, the day’s troubles disappear, and I can no longer explain the dull ache in my hand or the faint acrid smell that lingers in the cabin. I wrap my arms around his neck and sing, ‘Oh I could drink a case of you darling. Still I’d be on my feet, oh I would still be on my feet.’