from sky to seed

There be monsters

Sunset on the country road home.

The corner of Missouri that I’m starting to call “home” is a community so small that when you walk into a liquor store, people tip their heads and ask, “Where you from?  Why you came?”

“Minnesota,” I sometimes say, because it’s where I lived last.  Or, “Alaska,” because for years I considered it home base.  Or, “Oregon,” because I went to school and worked there for years.

In response to the second question, I say, “A man,” and smile as though it’s a lie.  Because it seems too miraculous to be true.

But this week, Jon’s in Mexico to race the Baja 500, which means I’ll be (wo)manning the house and the farm on my own.

It’s lonely working a field by yourself, but not entirely displeasurable.  Pax kept me company, napping and surveying my progress, sometimes yawning, unconcerned.

At 8:30, Jon called, but the service in the farm’s valley is poor and our voices kept falling away.  It was time to leave, anyway — the last of the sun bleeding from the leaves on the perimeter of the field, the sky ablaze, clouds shredded across the horizon like claws.  In the fading light I packed up the car, turned off the generator and the pump and left the empty hose in the snake and drove home.

Home.  A small part of me dreaded going back to the empty house, which had always been his but, now, is ours.

For months I’d worried myself over the prospect of moving in together, the darknesses that cohabitation might reveal.  I thought I’d be relieved to move through the rooms with only myself and the dog nearby.

But still.

I felt lonesome for him in a way I hadn’t expected, and it was sad to take myself wordlessly to bed, sad to brush my teeth in the absence of his company.  The living together wasn’t the terror, it was the threat of experiencing a comfort that could disappear.  The feeling that everything good is only temporary.

The close of the day.  I go to the bedroom, I turn off the light.  Look at the darkness.  There are no monsters.  Only the longing for his hand moving across the sheet to find my hand, and the empty pillow next to me where he rests his head.

3 Responses to “There be monsters”

  1. kate smith-banes

    oh, rose, your blogs are wonderful. first, i cannot picture you in southern missouri, let alone farming, but you sound so happy~~new lessons and challenges each day. getting back to the earth makes both you and the plants grow. living in a small midwestern town is as much of a culture shock as farming. good people once you get to know them. jon is a lucky man. keep up the good work–both with the blog and
    the farm. i will be one continual reader of your adventures. take care, wear sunscreen and don’t work too hard. (can’t help it–it’s a mom thing and you will always be one of my “kids”) enjoy the lightening bugs ;). peace/grace, kate

  2. Rose

    Hi Kate!

    Thank you so much for the kind words. It’s definitely a big life shift, but it feels like a good, right step. The lightning bugs started flashing last night! Little gems in the dark, just what I needed to see.



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