May 24
The rain stopped yesterday evening, and by this morning the temp had dropped to thirty degrees. Two days before Memorial Day! That's why we don't plant tomatoes in the spring, despite the illusory promise of the warm afternoons.
Thus being the Saturday of a three-day weekend, Sarah heads to Cedar City for groceries so we don't have to drive to town over the rest of the holiday. She will, of course, drop a loaf of last night's bread off for our neighbor Steve. She'll shop for groceries and chicken feed, and fill up the car with gas.
I take the dogs out— on leashes again, since it only takes a few minutes after the sun rises for the frost-firmed ground to turn once again to mud. The sun warms the late morning to sixty degrees, and I'm tempted to remain outside. But the mud dissuades me. By tomorrow, it will have dried, so I opt for discretion over valor and tend to the dishwasher and some small repairs in the house.
The house seems empty without Sarah, though she's only been gone an hour. I sit on the couch, listening to the wind outside, and hearing the loudness of the silence within the walls. The dogs sense it, too, and jump up on the couch with me, one on either side. Surely they can't realize the memories that surge unbidden as the anniversary of events past approach?
I sit in silence until I hear the tires on the gravel road. The dogs hear it too, and they run for the door barking in anticipation of Sarah's return. If I could bark, I'd probably join them.
Thus being the Saturday of a three-day weekend, Sarah heads to Cedar City for groceries so we don't have to drive to town over the rest of the holiday. She will, of course, drop a loaf of last night's bread off for our neighbor Steve. She'll shop for groceries and chicken feed, and fill up the car with gas.
I take the dogs out— on leashes again, since it only takes a few minutes after the sun rises for the frost-firmed ground to turn once again to mud. The sun warms the late morning to sixty degrees, and I'm tempted to remain outside. But the mud dissuades me. By tomorrow, it will have dried, so I opt for discretion over valor and tend to the dishwasher and some small repairs in the house.
The house seems empty without Sarah, though she's only been gone an hour. I sit on the couch, listening to the wind outside, and hearing the loudness of the silence within the walls. The dogs sense it, too, and jump up on the couch with me, one on either side. Surely they can't realize the memories that surge unbidden as the anniversary of events past approach?
I sit in silence until I hear the tires on the gravel road. The dogs hear it too, and they run for the door barking in anticipation of Sarah's return. If I could bark, I'd probably join them.
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