From my new house

From my new house, I can hear roosters crowing. The train whooshes past, heading to or from Vermont, the October sky an impeccable blue.

I keep trying out new trails and getting lost in fields of frost and dew before emerging onto Pulpit Hill Road.

This morning, I moved the little table he made at the Shelburne Crafts Center a decade ago that holds the jades from my mother, until I found just the right spot for it, cozied between the couch and the piano. I made the bed, put away the canned goods, vacuumed the cushions and carpet, all the while wondering what makes a home.

Is it the light? Is it the smells? Is it the espresso pot from my sister or the snacks my kids like best? Is it having cousins over, or sleeping twelve hours and waking with a crick in my neck but a little more rested? Is it a smudge stick, a ceremony? Or just something that happens over time?

Thirty years ago I was a new girl in this very town. So strange to be the mama now, my heart in my throat as I watched them sit down next to each other on the yellow school bus yesterday, in the seat right behind the driver, comforted by each other (though they would never admit this).

Disregarding the clock, I will sleep when I’m sleepy, eat when I’m hungry. The world is always spinning; only we have the choice to sit down. And that is exactly what I’m doing today, listening to the leaves rustle and fall, her voice on the phone my soft landing. I close my eyes to receive the sun warming what feels like an aging face, and give thanks for the quiet.

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