I am sitting. Alone. The sun has been out for an astonishing three days. My better half is over working on the sailboat. I’ve waved my daughter off to her summer job. The plants have been watered, the tiny lettuce thinned; the laundry has yet to be put away—I’m stalling on the grocery shopping too.
Outside, wormy strings from the oak trees float down. One group of rhododendron hangs tired with blossoms that have passed. Behind and to the side others pop with pink and purple blooms. In the garden, daylilies and iris, bee balm and sun drops wait to explode; everything is lush and green and rooted in fresh earth.
The weekend contained a prom night for the resident teen that involved a 3:00 a.m. parent pick up from an after prom party, followed by a taxing day at the cheese shop for me and then a birthday supper for the man of the house. In spite of falling asleep early last night I’m carrying fatigue like a load of cement slab. It’s enough to sit under the patio umbrella and contemplate the robin singing in the back, the ant hills growing in the patio cracks, the chipmunks scuttling under the step to the sliding door, the wind exhaling through the woods lining the yard. A hummingbird dives toward the feeder, and levitates—pausing before getting on with the task ahead.
Kind of like me.