Coming back to the blog feels like stepping from the car after the last leg of the vacation drive. The end of semester still hovers on my back, while summer heat glows in the haze of midday. Despite tired eyes and achy joints, I stand a little taller.
I look toward a summer of writing in the same way I’d see a summer home. Looking at the unwritten words through a window dusted with salt spray. Like the first day of vacation, my head is full of the wish for time to move slowly, and the words to come freely.
Moving into this metaphorical summer place, I bring an old leather suitcase, its seams splitting with the weight of all I carry into this writing trip. Stories of months gone by, folded neatly, waiting to be unpacked.
In the garden, the perennials have survived the winter, and stretch their leafy fingers toward the sun. New plants draw strength from the ground. Emmy’s garden flourishes, even though we said goodbye to her that harsh spring night.
By my side her little sister, Bea, stands quietly as I open the window to let in the words. We catch a scent of roses and hope blooms.
The Golden Plot 