When the morning sun enters the east window in my plain kitchen, I sit in the old oak rocker, warmth caressing my hands like an old friend.The solid wood and warmth anchors me.The chair is a five dollar cast-off from the thrift store and the sun is today's gift.I wonder about the person who sat in this rocker before me.Certainly a story is wanting to be told about the porch it decorated and the rain that beat on its runners.
A small blue pillow holds my back and oddly it has a pouch on the reverse side where I keep the crinkled white envelope.
The garden on the side is wild and green with a brick wall , very uneven , that seems to be keeping the roses at bay.This is all mine and I treasure every board, every plank of the kitchen, especially the kitchen with the rocker and blue pillow.And the green overflowing garden and wall.
When I arrived at my house to become its lady, I wondered if peace would follow me and seep through the small cracks in the walls and between the boards. What song would the boards sing as the wind battered the windows and birds called in the garden?Would my heartache follow or be sloughed off as I walked through this beautiful, tight, safe house of grey and green in the French countryside.
No one knows me here; knows about the hidden letter.When I walk to the village, which brings its own pleasure, I meet strangers with a smile and wonder, will you be a new friend ?Will you come if the flu takes me down: will I help you carry your parcels?All of the future that spreads out before me like a quilt, is unknown.This I what I do know; I left it all behind me.I found this little house and leapt into the future, holding on tight to its shutters and roses .
I will one day burn the letter. The pieces of who I am, different certainly, will meld into a whole person again with cracks now sealed in gold and I will live again and give this house a name of its own: new beginning.
No comments:
Post a Comment