This is the House of Yearning
This is the house of yearning where fog-combed skies muted the cries of red-tail hawk.
This is the day when the wind carried salt, lavender and rosemary.
This is the day when it was dull enough that memory light the mind like a tiny lantern.
A long journey in an open wagon. Dust. Flies. The reel of clouds overhead and the slow stories they’d unwind over days that stretched wide as a sea.
The hard boards on our backs lying down in back. The ruts in the road as seen through the cracks and every once in awhile the bright shock of a wildflower.
The smell of fire and smoke. The sound of fire. The press of bodies around it. The way the fire quieted then glowed like a red, sunken star.
How each day we’d speak of the house. Build it with shared words. You’d say: hillside, open. I’d say: water whispering, dappled woods.
How always there was an orchard, a garden.
And the miles wound under us. Flat swaying seas of grasses becoming thick-knuckled mountains. How the air tightened and grew crisp.
By the day we sat at the blue-eyed lake we’d constructed everything out of air.
As we bathed in the icy water. As we washed the dust and flies and miles from our bodies we were submerged in the shadows of birds.
Today the house is made of wood. The orchard stretches 20 trees deep. The garden writes itself into the soil.
And you are not in it.