burrow

Trains pass this house many times a day and sound their horns at the crossings. They blend into the soundscape of birds, wind moving through pines, settling walls.

My boy and I have new rhythms and new favorites, new jobs and new home offices. He learns to drive on a cherry red Ford pickup. We spend time with sisters, cousins, and uncles. Our voices echo through empty rooms with bare floors and walls.

It feels right that we came here in winter. My heavy heart needs a resting, fallow time. I burrow under, and curl to lick my wounds.

letting go

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. — William Morris

We are moving in two months, so I am taking William Morris’ words to heart. I am making choices, selling off, giving away. I feel stripped down to a ribbon inside. I move from room to room, pulling items out of corners and closets. I hold each thing in my hand, feel its weight, and I whisper to myself: And this? Does this matter to you? Will its loss tear through you, leave you broken and wanting?

The whispered answer:
Just let it go.