Your pine trees.

 

I'm sitting here ... thinking how awesome a weekend this would have been if things were normal. The sky has been the bluest of blues. The clouds big and puffy, the starkest of white. The grass is so green, it looks lush and velvety. The long grass is fuzzy and lacy at the top, blowing in the breeze. It's barely 70 degrees, no humidity. Everyone has mowed, so you can smell the green-ness in the wind.

The two clumps of pine trees you planted on the south end of the house are gorgeous. They're stout and sturdy, and look like a postcard.

There's a new kildeer with a new nest in the driveway. I found her mowing yesterday. She's a brave little momma. Standing her ground, squawking so loud as I whizzed past. You gotta admire that kind of love.

Under other circumstances, we would have worked outside most of the weekend. It would have been the perfect "Git 'er done" two days to get everything in shape so we could kind of slack off for a while. Sometimes I wonder if you just got tired of the work it takes to keep this place going. Let's face it ... it's a lot. I always thought you liked it ... found pride in it. I also always thought that if you wanted help, you'd ask. Maybe that was wrong of me. If so, I apologize.

I see it differently now. Now I see us tackling it together. On the weekend you need to spray the dandelions and thistles, I would mow and you would spray. Then I'd start weeding the beds in the back and you'd trim the Dr. Seuss bush and tree in the front. I'd plant flowers and you'd push the edging/rocks back in place.

Tonight we'd throw steak on the grill. I'm craving steak on the grill so badly! The grill has been uncovered for two years and I see squirrels poking around it, so I don't even open it. I'm afraid to.

We'd also light a fire to burn all of the weeds piled up in the pit. Maybe Denny and Deb would come over for a bit. He and/or Jeff have been shooting all day, off and on. Or, maybe it would just be us, talking about everything and nothing. Just being together.

Maybe we'd imagine how things are going to look in a year ... when our grandbaby is 9 months old.

Maybe we'd get curious and drive into Beloit to see if the protests are still going on. It would be a great night for a drive.

You know that sound the back door step makes as you come into the house? My ears are always on alert for that sound. They search the atmosphere in the same way you used to too-quickly spin the tuning knob on a radio, desperate to find a signal.

The sun and the wind and the smell of this dirt can nourish you. They can heal you. Your blood, your sweat and, yes, even your tears, live here. You are part of the heartbeat of this place, proud on the hill.

She misses you almost as much as I do.