One of the chickens disappears. Plucked – no pun intended – straight from the coop and vanished without a trace. Your nephews take it upon themselves to play detective, scouring the fields below with the kind of gusto only young sleuths could muster.
You feel a sadness you don't currently have space for.
A whole month passes, you do not write. There is no time – emotional or otherwise – in your schedule for efforts of such magnitude. You are tired. You are a wrung-out dish rag at the peak of summer, something doesn't add up. Your suitcase is a hundred pounds of expectations, plus a raincoat. The weather forecast changes by the day. Before you're back here, you'll have faced snow. Life is strange, and wondrous, and impossible all at once. This is the gift, when you remember to view it through that lens.
Two days to departure. Everything is lighter
after takeoff.
No comments:
Post a Comment