The moment I set my feet in the house, I am preparing to head back out again. He greets me in the driveway, kissing me, he is dirty and sweaty. I sit on the steps in the sun and tie my boots as he pulls out the grill and gets it ready for dinner, first grilling of the year. I pull my grandfather’s rake from the shed, and MY shovel, the little one, that I find easiest to use.
I pull three buckets of lilac shooters out of the garage, and head to a soft patch of dirt about a third of the way through the back yard. They will not bloom this year, but maybe next year a few will be there, it isn’t just for me that I plant them, the birds, the butterflies, the bees, the ladybugs, the sweet nectar that maybe someone will suck from the tiny blossoms.
The news isn’t good, but they have nothing really to report that takes more than five minutes. The local news recaps what I just watched. I change the channel. By morning they have only thirty more seconds worth of information, I watch only for the weather report, and have to sit thru half an hour of repeating gossip to get to it.
I pour my coffee.
I put the dogs dish under my arm.
I sit out in the hard blowing breeze, listen to the windchimes jangling.
Watch the clouds race across the sky, and marvel at the sunlight shining like lace around the edges of blue patches of sky.
Fuel for Tuesday.