Golden straw, rusty metal, chartreuse, grey pavement...
down the lane, amongst the fields,
a canal running in back,
Willow creek over yonder.
Leaves tumbling down faster than we can rake them.
My mother loves to garden, but at 81 she is slowing down, but her slow pace is still faster than any of my good days.
As it is raining, we are in the living room around the fireplace, as my Mom talks Thanksgiving recipes: "Cranberry pie? How does that sound?" Meanwhile Chelsea is making a list. My nieces pulled a prank on Mr. Espresso. They put uncooked pasta shells under the toilet seat. When he sat down on it, they cracked and he thought he broke it. Never a dull moment.
Mom made Chocolate chip cookies. At church they served donuts. I am on a sugar high.
It is hard to hold that I have been away longer than I have lived here, a place I call home. Life looks the same: The ranch, the town, the rice fields, the sky, the distant Sierras, the birds lining up on the telephone wires, the cards going around the table, the aroma from the oven, my mom's sassy personality, my bedroom in the back of the house.
And yet nothing is the same.
Watering my soul.