There is light in my lady’s house . . .
She and our lovable Grape reside in a homey boghouse, newly cozy, where the crackling woodstove dries out the drips and damp brought in from walks in the soggy yard and rain days along the creek. From the middle of the living room, the hungry, iron mouth chomps logs brought in from a gargantuan pile on the porch, evaporating the sizzling wet left in the mottled and myriad carpets – which are all different, and are everywhere, even the bathroom.
Time is still there, passing imperceptibly after a continual rotation of breakfast eggs, dinners in bowls, and hours on couches with piping mugs of peppermint tea in hand.
Walking the outer bounds of the yard, the eyes feast on every nook and cranny, bough and branch, old shed and rusted nail, that cover it – filling up as fully and deliciously on picturesque junk and swelling forest as the stomach does inside, hovering around the butcher block, gorging on bubbling, home-made pizza, fresh from the oven.
It is Boon’s favorite place in the known world – a puppy who has been to the desert and the city and back – and he would choose the house on Martin Gap Road as his end destination every time, if I let him, when we bundle into the car for another weekend on the road.
However long she remains there, and I visit her there, it will always be a resting place of comfort and quiet, dense fog, and pitter-patter mornings – my heart-home away from home along a dirt road – good for walking – a stream – good for wading – and a place – good for winding talks around the woodstove.
Be well, loves.
Till the re-seeing.
– Sarah