and so we tucked away. deep into the heart of our home and deep into the heart of this life, together. slow, slow mornings, french-pressed coffee, victory gardens, seed packets, walks (oh, all those walks) bike rides, movies, late night dinners, stove-top meals (for every meal), schitt's creek, candlelight, hardware trips, waiting in cars, sewn floral masks, talks over roses and anemone bulbs and hyacinths, rising bread, laundry on the line, clothespins, market lists in cursive, watercolors, homeschool, ghiradelli dark chocolate and caramel squares, vitamins, appointments alone, turning on the news, turning off the news, muddy puddles, muddy boots, muddy hands, sigur rós, sour cherry plums, maple oatmeal, a seventh birthday, ripe loquats, lollipops, drinking from the hose, new cinnamon freckles, the eight pm neighborhood howls, hands on belly, lists of names (names said aloud, names written, names dreamt), kissing before bed (them, him, my hand on her home).
there's a woman two houses down tending to her tomato vine from her patio. she's wearing a violet shirt and all her flower pots are also violet. a favorite color, i assume. she waves from her sun-spot to me as i sit typing in mine. how beautiful it is to see someone tending to something they care about. how beautiful it is that she believes the tomato vine will bear its fruit soon. how beautiful it is to believe at all.
(twenty-one weeks of growing her.
twenty-one weeks of tending to her.
twenty-one weeks of believing in her. in me. in us)