It is a new season. Despite hats and lotion and shade trees, my collarbones are wearing their yearly blush of sunburn. The peonies have burst open. The lilies I gave up on are budding vigorously. We mow weekly now. Lemonade and grilled suppers, long twilights and mosquitos.
It is a new season in our hearts as well. We have lived in this home well, cared for it, planted and tended its outdoor spaces and lovingly improved its indoor ones. But I hope by this time next week there is a sign in the yard, and down the road some new family to fill its walls with memories yet to be made.
We have set our sights on moving into the little town just north of here, where this non-driver could bike and walk all over, where we could all live less car-dependent and more fully in this foothills community we have come to love. All the parts of this big decision have been simmering for awhile, but it has only just all come together. The boys are on board, and we have all caught the vision of what this change could mean.
Of course, there is pruning and clipping and cleaning and putting away, shedding and sprucing. This house must be sold before the next is bought, but since we want accessibility to a specific area, we have been looking already. All the questions and the math whirl in my head. But beneath all the noise and the lists and Internet searches, there is peace.
I’ll be quiet here for awhile, I expect, as we see how the next steps of this journey go. In the meantime, I am delighted that a poem and a photograph of mine will appear in the upcoming summer issue of Kindred, which may be preordered here.
Wishing you all the beauties of May.