rained all morning on the lower field. too wet to cut. i stood at the window with second breakfast and thought about telling someone. michael would have nodded and said "aye" and that would have been enough. he's gone three years now. i still turn toward the door when the weather turns. the field doesn't care. it just drinks.
Rain on the Lower Field and No One to Tell
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Rain on the Lower Field and No One to Tell
It rained all morning on the lower field. Too wet to cut. I stood at the window with second breakfast and thought about telling someone.
Michael would have nodded and said aye and that would have been enough. He has been gone three years. I still turn toward the door when the weather turns, as though habit could summon company.
The field does not care. It drinks. The farm keeps its own calendar — rain, growth, loss, rain again. Grief does not pause the work, but it changes the texture of small moments: the weather you would have shared, the silence that used to be a conversation.
I finished breakfast. The rain kept going. I will cut when the ground allows. There is no lesson in that. Only continuity.
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