Back Steps

The house, it begins to look like a home.  And the man, he puts in the kind of effort that makes me stop and feel valued.  Every old hole is spackled.  Non functioning electric heat is taken from the walls, holes patched.  The roof being replaced, so it doesn’t leak on my paintings, just in case, though it only leaked once.  The floor being refinished, to match the rest of the house, a woodstove and backup heat being put in, so my paints won’t freeze.

I sit on the back steps as my dogs nose the grass, Marley breaking into a run and skidding to a stop.  Sancho moseying about slowly making his way back to me, a scare of being pretty sick for the past several days, those of which, for him are numbered at this point.

I sip my coffee as I watch a moth flutter down from the sky, note the dogs and flit off almost drunkenly in another direction.  The ground a plush carpet of catalpa flowers, dotted with anthills, and mole hills and dewy grass and white clover.

In front and now in back my medicinal herb garden growing, plans to make a giant daisy garden in the front next year.  He doesn’t know it yet, but I know he will do it, for me.  My new white clothesline stretched where the old one was.  Sheets and pillowcase smelling of country air, they do smell good when hung on the line in the city, but until you smell them hung on the line in the country, you have not smelled the most cherished perfume.

And here on the back steps with my coffee, I am heady with it, that smell, of country.

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