Arriving to hydrangeas, the moist of air. The strawberry plants have grown and the fruit nibbled upon by woodlouse and squirrels. They left me enough for a small bowl for me and my daughter to share after supper.
My son has shaved off his pirate-ish beard. I am grateful…. ^__^
Unpacking slowly. Instead of the patterns of the old, here is an opportunity to try something else. Same house, different time.
Some things don’t change, however. I can still hear my neighbour through the closed window. “Paula,” he calls. “Paula.” His dog is still wanting.
I, however, must sort through ten months of paperwork and file them…. OTL
A summer for writing. The cool and damp is a good clime for for it. I won’t be drawn to the lake, to don snorkel and fins, to gaze at the gold fracture of light, the ripples of reflected sunshine strobing along the long stems of water lilies. They are more beguiling from below, than above.