I love that when I come back here, to the farm, nothing has changed.
I mean, little things here and there. The blackberries are burned down to reveal the beautiful oak trees that were hiding beneath all these years. Dogwood and serviceberry are planted underneath. The strawberry patch has multiplied, stretched to three different plots due to Mom's splitting and transplanting. The chickens are almost all white now. The dogs are gone. There is only Soxy left now, out of all the cats. She stares at her reflection the the windows and tries to catch birds on the TV.
The tree that I used to sit under and watch the river has fell, taking with it the bank it had its roots in. It's drowning in the river now, still upright but in too deep. The river still moves slow, even when the spring rain has made it pregnant with too much water. The air smells like springtime and no sound can be heard but silence.
Mom is making meatloaf tonight, and Dad is making his horrible Folgers coffee. Later we'll probably bring out the guitar and banjo and sing an old song, or maybe we'll write something new. The warm glow of the fire warms my shins as I sit and write, thinking about all the beauty that this place holds, remembering the steadiness of days that it brought to me.
I have more happiness in me than I can pour out on paper. I pray you feel the warmth of the love of family today, wherever you are.
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