Retreat

This farm is like a freshwater lake for my soul, breathing peace into my tired Mommy bones. The split rail fences lean into the fields like women kneeling at an altar, tired with the weight of sin. The big, red barn sags a little, too proud to give up after so many lifetimes of loving animals, giggling children and conversations between men. A few of the trees no bear longer fruit, but the moss on their trunks reminds me of the wrinkles on old hands. The pond is quietly waiting to be abandoned for the winter, the ducks waiting to fly south. The swing on the porch silently waits for someone to spend a moment in the sunshine.

This farm has held me from the moment I took my first breath. It seems to know everything as it waits for someone to breath new life into it again. I know how much it wants to feel tiny feet running down the drive again. I know because as I lie here in my childhood bed, I wish my feet were tiny again, running down the drive of a farm that hasn't yet begun to feel tired.