There’s a rusty chair left over from your grandparents in law, one the squirrels haven’t yet torn to shreds. Pull it from the corner of the yard and right to the center, the pollen crunching under your feet. There’s a neighbor behind you, his garage door open. Music is playing. Something is being fixed or installed. Push that from your focus, and avoid being annoyed by his perpetual busy suburban nesting. There’s a deck before you, decades old, creaking & buckled from rain & sun, boards warped & bleached, nails reaching upward. Some slats mossed over fold beneath the lightest of footsteps. Give thanks for the long years this space has given you, and avoid being annoyed at this crumbling hazard. There’s a vista before you, a roof that’s never leaked, a tree above it, right at the center of this part of your life. Cross your legs. Palm the glass of wine. Watch for mosquitos. And look up. There are clouds & birds, branches & wind. It’s all starting again. It always will.
Written in response to this challenge.