From the Soddy Journal, February 27, 1867

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Sunshine

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since 1999-06-25

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Listening to every heart

0 posted 2002-02-27 09:00 PM

From the Soddy Journal, February 27, 1867

He came in from the fields, tired, dusty, smiling, and I could see from the bend of his shoulders that he was weary from his day.  Out here, on virgin soil, planting is more than sowing a row and planting a seed.  First, the ground needs clearing.  Although there are not that many trees, there are native plants that rope the ground tight with roots.  To clear any area big enough for a worthwhile planting, the ground needs several goings-over with the horses and plow.  He has taken me to the pond, where there are gullies from when the heavy rains come, and you can see the roots run six and seven feet down!  Imagine!  Grass roots, reaching for moisture anywhere they can find it.

He looks over at me now, having put the children to bed, asking what I am writing.  I tell him that some day I will send back to the east an accounting of our days.  He nods his head, and stretches in his chair before the fire.  “Getting colder again, and the geese were flying west.”  I looked at him as he sat there before the fire, his concerned face bringing to me the weight of his words.  Geese, going west.  Not south.  Not north.  The clouds were hanging low on the horizon as well, or they were when he had come in before supper, earlier.  “Snow?” I questioned, quietly.

He nodded.  “A lot, I suppose.  And that would figure, I was just getting a good burn on the brush that needed clearing.”

“But you got a good start on the season,” I said.  “Aye, more than most.”  “Don’t fret,” as I watch him stand, stretch and go to the window.  “Full moon,” he says, and turns to take his coat from the peg.  “More?”  “More.  I will be back soon.”

So I am here alone, having worked the whole day alongside him and without him, and he is still not done, but allows me to stay, to write.  I know his thoughts too well.  He leaves me this small pleasure because of my personal reasons.  To write of life, here and now.  To journalize when I can, our moments.  Not just one, or when a crisis occurs, but all of them.  There needs to be history to look back on.  He knows of my love in feeling a pen scratching across the white page, filling it with my thoughts.  Then, for the love of my poetry.  For the need to share something back to those yet to come.

However, now is not the time to write.  Now I will pull on my coat to go out with him before the winds get colder yet, and help him while I can, for I feel the next few days will find us in here, wishing we had made better use of our time out there while it is still clear enough to work.  For if the geese are flying west toward the clouds, then the bad weather will be here in a day or so.  I know this in my bones.  He knows it in his soul.  Yet he would do more.  But not without me.  Sometimes I belong in here, scratching my thoughts.  But mostly I belong by his side, where I am whole.  When we work as one.

If I am fortunate, I will say something at the right time, then he will decide, and the moon will guide us to where we need to be.  I will see him smile again before the night is over.

amusemi
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since 2001-12-08

Posts 1262
A State of Disarray