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What It Means to be Home: A Love Letter to the House I am Leaving
The late afternoon sun glanced through my Western neighbor’s trees as I walked slowly along my short garden walkway, my hands moving softly through the young aspens leaping out of the soil.
One volunteer (they are all part of the same organism) was thriving after I had jerry-rigged a metal support to keep it upright by tying it to a large sister tree. Doing just fine, thanks. I will have to remember to take that metal off before the trunk grows right into it.
Hi guys, I said softly. The tall daisies waved in the breeze. One lavender bush that I had planted last year had, in the month I’d been gone, exploded in sprays of fragrant blooms. Doing fine, thanks, she said.
Lots of new aspens. The yard was beautiful. Green, dense, almost tropical in places. Not the lawn, which is scorched by days of triple heat. Not much you can do about that. But the flowers? Shaded by so many aspens, they flourished. Lilies. Blooms for which I have no names. Planted by the previous owners who had ten green thumbs. All perennials, god bless their generous souls, so that all I have to do is clean out what dies and make room for more.