The Missus.
Yesterday we trespassed back to our old house in the woods, quietly parked in the shade, and started off on our old trail that winds through two and a half miles of hardwood forest. A "For Sale" sign still hung on the old place, which was covered in yellow pine pollen. Stella ran up to the front porch and wagged her tail expectantly. The grass was electric green and calf-high. High overhead, the silver oaks were pushing new growth out to the tips of their branches. At the edge of the property, the compost bin was swelling with black gold. Fat bees drowsed around in high, wide loops around the dogwoods. Somewhere in the distance, a wild dog was chasing goats. "I miss being out here every day," one of us said. "Me too."
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