Last night around ten I heard them pull into the drive. I was floating in and out of a much needed sleep but I know the sound of my own gravel and, besides, nobody drives this way that late. I heard the male voices somewhere in the woozy distance and rested in the sure knowledge that I wasn’t needed. Not this late. It thinked me of all those times before when the mariner returned from the Mara and I would leap out of bed ashine with welcome. It was what a goodwife did. Something to eat? Tea? It didn’t matter that I would be up again through the night with small child and up again as the first bird sang in the morning. I was a good wife. Now, this time, however, I allowed my own exhaustion to take over, feeling somewhat guilty. I am enough and the morning will come soon, the day rolling out like a new carpet and taking me, us, in a new direction.
Home is where the heart is, the wife is, the safety and warmth is. He will have been so happy as the car pulled up and that lovely sigh rises like a sun into his mouth. Aaaaaah……….at last……home! After such a diplodocus of a week, starting with many flooral connections, pale faced, unsteady and scared, an ambulance journey, two hospitals and enough wiring affixed to light up Wembley Stadium, he is now safely re-paced. We, who waited and wondered, who drove miles, flew more miles, made endless phone calls and spoke to consultants, doctors and nurses, are, understandably, bejabered. And relieved.
The day breaks soft, but I did encounter a rather snippy cold wind as I rounded the house to feed the birds. My sweet peas are planted out in a sheltered corner and I know it’s a bit early for this wild place. Although I doubt there will be a frost, my doubting has made little difference in the past and I have stood before, mournfully, above little seedlings, out too early, darkened and flopped over thanks to a sneaky overnight drop in temperature. However, I am hopeful, and the peas are already wrapping strong tentacles around the verticals of two quirky spiral things with knobbles on, things that rust naturally and I love rust. We all rust eventually and it looks to me like a perfectly natural process. The weathers of life will shine on us, batter us, flaw and flake us, but we are beautiful at every stage. Our obsession with youthfulness denies us the pleasure of rusting. It isn’t real, nor possible to de-age ourselves, and when I meet someone who embraces his or her rusting, it is a beautiful thing to see.
My dangly thing didn’t do the trick. Jack Sparrow saw right through it. Now (and fingers crossed) I have stuck on a sheet of window frosting that breaks up the flat clear of glass and turns it into a diamond-shaped light mosaic. I think it might work, well, once I’ve flipped the window round to re-attach the top left corner. Fixing it on the inside didn’t work so I had to stick it to the outside. Outside there is weather and weather will pick and fret at outside things until she wins the fight. Everybody knows that. Everybody who accepts the rust and adorns it with flowers.