The search for home-home, for land, for space, for responsibility and a continuation of my dive into abnormality began three years ago this week.
That search went places. And didn’t. We’re here where the chickens call their tut-tut-tut for me as loudly as they can muster and I rush outside, eyes to the bare branches, until I spot her spotted chest. Stick after stick I throw. She watches. Intrigued. Confused. As I reach for another, she’s gone. I cannot see where she went. I wait. The ladies wait. The squirrel waits. The nuthatches wait.
The woodpecker returns.
I take that as the “all clear,” feed the Nuggets, count the hens, and return to this screen while the sunshine from the window tugs on my sleeve.
A week ago, without much depth of conversation, we decided that it was time for me to look for work. Odd timing, as it was three years ago this week that I quit working for wages outside the home. But not odd for us, as we have a long history of talking and talking and talking about things such that, when it is time to gtfo, we just say go.
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