I have a place for you to sleep, to rest your bones, to find a quietness in your heart. The walls are warm white, smooth and soft like melted ice cream. The light streams through the window, filtered by sheer curtains that diffuse the shape of the huge Sycamore in the front yard.
If you come in summer, we will eat roasted corn on the cob and drink icy margaritas from mason jars. Our bare feet will be dusty and our shoulders will be red from the sun. When you sleep, the windows will be open to the breeze that will move across your body, pulling away the heat of the day and your head will rest on a pillow that smells like lavender.
If you come in the fall, we will eat the last of the sweet tomatoes from the garden, so red that their ripeness splits their skin. We will drink apple pie moonshine and bake pumpkin pies. When you sleep, the windows will still be open just a bit to let in the waning warmth of summer days gone by and your head will rest on a pillow that smells like lavender.
If you come in the winter, we will eat a dark, rich soup and drink an even darker, rich wine. We will listen to the popping of pine wood on the fire and read books that can only be read when the snow falls. When you sleep, the windows will be closed against the icy winds and your body will be pressed under the weight of winter quilts and your head will rest on a pillow that smells like lavender.
If you come in the spring, we will eat crunchy green pea pods and drink whiskey sours. We will hike the trails along the river and watch for baby skunks marching in a row behind their mother. When you sleep, you will dream of the days ahead when once again the windows will open to summer’s breath and your head will, as always, rest on a pillow that smells like lavender.
A Blue Cape Cod 