I have dreams of Edgewood now – that stretch of grass from the back door
to the dock, and the deep shaded corner of the herb garden. I swear
I know that piece of property by heart. Sometimes when I’m falling
asleep I go over it – a long sentinel’s walk – all around
the land’s line – past the shed, down the road, hopping a swampy bit
at the base of the lower ring, then up and across that field beyond
the pasture, and back down along the stream. Or the different way,
down through the dim trees that ring the pond – stopping at the gate
beside mosquito bay to look into the bees’ door. then round the pond.
There’s a patch of jewel weed there just where you enter
the woods. Not now, of course, but in summer. I like the way the ground
feels underfoot, in the pine needles up by the house, beneath the
bird feeders. There’s some nice quartz there, too.
I think I could travel this whole world – and wouldn’t mind the try -
never to find a place I like so well. I’m glad you found it. So
glad so glad so glad. I remember the lump I got in my throat coming
around the drive that first time – before even glimpsing the house.
So see? Even when I don’t come home, it’s here too. I’ve got it
learned. And I’ll be back soon – to play that aching piano – or is it
me that’s aching for it – and wander up and down the upstairs hallway
in the night, and sit at the upstairs desk in the evening and early
morning, and squat on those front porch steps in the late afternoon,
or prop back in a porch chair in a night blow, and hunch over that
corner stool by the coffee maker and watch you go about the kitchen.
There I’ll be. I can’t wait.
I do love you. I love that place you’ve made. I love its stories,
accumulated in so few years, really. I’d never think a place could
become a home so soon, so solidly, and with such grace.
Write when you can, and send me two years.
