This past summer converted to a math equation:
Distance + Traffic + Relative + Ill Health = An Unexpected Move
There wasn’t time for a proper goodbye.
Not even so much as a Dear Garden letter.
My hope is that we carry any bit of soil we’ve ever tended with us, and not merely on our favorite work gloves or under our fingernails.
Perhaps the best way to honor the loss is simply to begin again. There will be lavender once more. Until there is, hold the memory and the sachet close.
Emergencies? Let’s hope not. Response time? Minutes instead of hours.
Then there’s just being nearer for the day to day and for whatever else lies ahead.
As for notes, the term spider farm still applies. With a vengeance.
Spiders. All sorts.
And phantasmal ropy strands of spider silk sailing through the air during the day and waving from street lights at night like banners from the underworld.
I have yet to meet the arachnid capable of such nightmarish abundance.
If it’s as friendly as the neighbors, I might just have to say, “Hello.”
♥ ♥ ♥