24 Apr 2025 Thu

he came home today after a week on the road. he brought me 
two plums and a pear, because that's what my grandfather
used to bring to my grandmother 
from his weekly walk to the 
market. last week (4/13, a sunday?), we planted two plum trees 
and two pear trees, three black raspberry canes and three red. 
last summer we had two small garden beds, but these felt like 
our first long commitments in this hilly little yard. 

we played a game in a crossbreeze of light and air, when he 
arrived. i had written him a note this morning, saying how the 
sight of his old telephones and my eucalyptus fronds, the fertile 
morning laddering in through the sunroom  windows and across the dark
hardwood, made me realize (again and) that we have a home, together. 
i wanted to greet him with a weightless heart, my strange traveler 
with his holybroken grin.

he helps me to focus on our sunflower seedlings, shrugging their
shoulders, and new matrices of wires to explore. i drive us to a 
we-missed-each-other dinner. i feel irritated
or even hurt, sometimes, when he points away from what i think must 
be done, ("oh no, are you crying? don't do that.") but mostly he's right,
and what good does it do, always poking at myself with all this excess 
sensibleness. 

we pray before eating, out loud just in our hearts. he added today, "and money,
and gigs." i thought he said, "and money, and kids." 

i climb him, he holds me. i write this. he goes to bed. i do, now, too.