Nest

I am going to miss this house so much. The seven rooms, the creaky beds, the stains on the floor where someone spilled diesel or paint. I will miss the bird songs, the flutter of bat wings, the funny noises the dogs make as they wrestle in the yard. And the smell of the kitchen when the rice is almost done.

I love looking out the front window and seeing the greenness—the vibrant grass, the squat lemon trees, the little peeks of the caretaker’s house beyond. So many mornings I have gotten up and opened the crooked wide window that John and Jackson built—the window that opens to a vast plane of lushness and the jungle beyond.

I love the big table, smoothed down with the wax from our drippy candles, and the benches that wobble when you sit on them.

So many times I have awoken in this house and thought, “today is a new day,” and so many times I have fallen asleep here inside my mosquito net on the little wooden bed frame, all quiet and peaceful.

How sad I am to leave.