Finally home from another of our trips. And on our way back all the fountains of the great deep burst forth and the windows of the heavens were opened... and all day and all night Saturday the white arc of our vehicle was cast deep into the shadowy curtains of thundery rain, and drifted away in the flooded southern roads.
Did it rain so here at home? I have to wonder. The earth is so dry I can almost hear the cracking of bones underground. Without taking my eyes from off the floors I walk the garden almost feeling sorry for myself… for how the wild southern landscape laughs at me, at all my efforts as it throws upon my face all its waste—how can one prevent the growing of weeds in such undisciplined and untamed expanse? Nature is prevailing.
The wildflower seeds I planted in the shade garden at the beginning of spring have expanded and grown into a rowdy, messy beauty—a manner of beauty which tires the eye and fails to differentiate the real meaning of magnificence. I had finally taken them all out.
I’ve seen Kitty wandering around here almost every day, but as much as I beg he won’t come to me. Was he a dweller of the Privet before I even came to be here, or has he only been entranced by my newly established gardens? Either way, like the dead, he lives here, yet never really here…
The recliner where my legs live at the end of the day, and sometimes during the middle of the day too, whilst I write a page or two, has just snapped broken again. No body is fixing it this time.
I talked to Ilva this morning, and coincidentally also talked to Nelida—both of them my friend, both of them past 70 and an example of unquestionable optimism and faith and hopefulness; regardless their age and their circumstances. They're vivid examples of what I'd like to see in my own life. And perhaps that is why I undoubtedly prefer the company of the old to the often emptied company of the younger?
I am multiplied… a very old woman and a young child cohabit in my soul…
This morning there was a moment when my husband and I looked deep into each other’s eyes—forgetting, remembering, discovering… perhaps seeing a new heaven to us reflected there? In his eyes. In our eyes. And only late this evening, we remembered that today was a very special day—so many years together, such deep sentiments, a sacred union made of blood binding us for life… and what does forgetting our anniversary means? Does that make an enormous difference on a summer day stretched wide and open before such deep love?
We’re home… rain or sun day or night… this is our story—written on each other.