REALITY?: As in, Back to

I’twasn’t long enough, though I used my trait of directional dysfunction to go twenty-five miles out of my way and back again to add an hour to the trip.

Unpacking, I find twenty-three new books, all free, to stack upon the shelves.  Could have gotten fifty more if I wanted–you can’t believe the shelves in the basement at Jules’ and Nancy’s, much less the library.  I wanted to live there among the books.

Home, I find a windowsill of red tomatoes.  The peaches are near ready but they’re more easily merely left to turn into wine, just as will the grapes this year.  The tomatoes need to become salsa, since I’ve sweet and hot peppers ready and cilantro within a couple days.  Should’ve planted onions this year; I love when nearly all ingredients were raised up just outside my door.

Home also reveals one potted plant forgotten to be watered but that’s all right.  The man doesn’t know what left the pile of feathers near the feeder but believes it is what is left of a mourning dove so likely hawk or fox fed well one night.

Though I haven’t gotten all the stress and doubts out of my mind, haven’t made a plan as to where I go from here, and loved the time spent with these close, dear friends, it’s still good to be home.  And the man missed me I suppose, enough to write some sweet words in an e-mail.  Forgetting that until I managed to use another account to send out e-mail, I’d used Nancy’s.  She promised though never to let him know she knew he’d called me Dimples.