For No One

 Earlier, I used the pronoun “who” in referring to old barns. These buildings are alive to me. The Toothless Lady waits, late for the sky.

 She didn’t burn down when the farmhouse did; she’s still standing on the hillside with only a singlewide for company now. She kills me, she with her sky window and her great gaping mouth, the piles of household junk that populate her once-useful interior. I hope I don’t see the day she falls in. But fall she will, and I must treasure her while she’s with us.

We come to the farmstead, which has been mowed just yesterday. I’m always a little abashed that this “abandoned” farmstead is often better kept than our lived-in yard. I’m glad the owner still does all that, grateful. And yet as I walk the paths with Chet, Paul McCartney’s voice begins to sing “For No One” in my head. A day later, he’s still there.

I’ve never been here when the peonies are blooming. Ohhhhh. The landowner mows around this peony, as she bows her head in sorrow at the state of her friend House. Coiffed in vines, squirrels running through.

  

The roof of the wellhouse fell in this winter in a storm when a branch landed on it. I could still get a drink of water, but it'd take some work and clearing away. I've no doubt that thirst will be a strong motivator on hot summer days. I'll get it cleaned up, and let him wonder who did it.

An old hydrangea, doubtless once a stunning blue, hugs the siding. 

Anybody home? Apparently not.

This is my road, my place on the earth. One of them, anyway. There are many places I love, but the ones I can get to on foot are dearest to me.

Speaking of dear to me...that little black dot up ahead, trotting into the mackerel sky. That's dear.

For DOD on his birthday, June 18, 1912. Imagine.