I’ve just come inside after eating my lunch
out in our backyard. We’re yet to acquire outdoor furniture, but sitting on the
grass, I could look up at the clearest blue sky, see the fence line, and
the trees beyond it as my horizon. The warm breeze and scent of food caused
flies and bugs a like to converge. As they hit my arms and crawled along my
legs, it reminded me of teaching kindergarten children. At story time they
sit at my feet, playing with my shoes, and wanting to borrow my jewelry. They
put up their hands to ask questions or tell a tales of yesterday’s adventures.
They long to be heard, to make noise and explore their world.
I think that even the flies in the country
move at a slower pace. When one sneaks through an open door between our going
outs and coming ins, I often leave it to buzz and crawl along the walls. Its
slower pace and heavy buzz assures me that it could be dead with one spray or
quick swat with a book. But its tendency to search, not bother, prompts me to
adjust to the sound and the presence of another in the house. I know that tomorrow I will
simply vacuum its dried carcass off the windowsill, beneath the glass window of
what it thought was its opportunity at freedom. Dumb fly.
Yesterday I built a garden box for my herbs
and some new beetroots. Not being a very seasoned builder, the task was quite
rewarding, taking little time and even lesson money. As I ate my lunch I sat urging my little plants to grow, longing them to stay alive and bring us our first harvest of home grown veggies.
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