The road off the highway is so small that you miss it the first time, have to circle back around and drive 40 miles an hour to get it right. Shuffle down a wobbly gravel road that only lets you see five feet ahead between the pines. What supposedly used to be a lawn is now a bucolic field of knee-high grass and clover. You wedge your car within the sea of green, drag what remains of your possessions to the unassuming log cabin, unearth a key from its hiding place: here is home for the foreseeable future, because you have no other to claim as yours.
On the way up, past the winding mountain pass in a little town that tried to entice visitors with its historic downtown, I bought a few vital supplies: water, watermelon, wine. When the cashier asked how my day was going so far I didn’t know how to begin to tell her. Didn’t know how to explain that everything was just as it should be, that everything was nothing but bliss.
Sit on the back porch with a tumbler of cheap Malbec, watch two horses peacefully pass by with nothing on their agenda but grazing. The sun beams bright above the forest-jagged mountain ridge, a cool breeze sifts through the valley and out the other side.
Just as it should be,
as it were.
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