Well, we are here. We live within your walls now. It's been a bit over three weeks. I've been meaning to write you, but we have just been so crazy busy and disjointed. The projects haven't stopped since we moved in, and I started school back up with the kids. I know you sent your little ones off to the country school. I actually keep mine home with me and teach them myself. Most days I am pretty happy about this, some days I wonder what I was ever thinking.
The best thing that has happened since we moved in? Having a birthday party here. My youngest two both have August birthdays. Just having a gathering here again, with kids and games and sugar - it was so much fun. The house hasn't had a fun gathering in a really long time.
I keep thinking of all this noise here now. These wild kids within these walls. I wonder what sounds your children made when they played, got a little too wild, or ran in to tell you some news at full volume. My father was the last kid that lived here.
I look out the north window that is in the living room. I hardly ever look out that window that I don't think of you gazing there too, and the door that is now gone slamming shut beside it. Were there grazing bison, billowing thunder heads, men on horseback, curious Indians?
There is a bustle here again. The curve of the circle that the events of life trace, it keeps flowing on. I know you are gone, but you live on here, with us. Though I visited your resting place just a few days ago, I picture you as my age, managing your offspring, working hard just to survive.
I hold this Baptist hymnal of Frank's in my hands. I picture his work-worn fingers clasping it, singing the words in a clear deep voice. Your faith, his faith, they were strong and sure.
So, I am glad to be here. There is a lot of work to be done. A lot of projects to finish, and so many more that still need to be started.
I think, hope, that you would be pleased with what we've done, and happy that this place didn't rot and fade, but gained a new lease.
Rest well, Lizzie. Maybe you sing these words in this well worn book on the table beside me.
Yours truly,
Charity
0 comments:
Post a Comment