There’s something about the smell of wet earth. It speaks to me of new life. The heralding of a new season. I want to enjoy that fragrance today. The wind has brought the storm clouds, and bits of rain like pellets from a pea-shooter strike the courtyard. Leaves have been blown by nature into a large pile. It will make it much easier for the gardener.
Few leaves remain on the trees after the gales last night. Pale scrawny branches strain for the grey sky as if begging for something - help, perhaps water. Not a bird anywhere. Where are they when the wind comes, and the leaves go? Are they hiding just waiting for the storm to pass?
I stand at my kitchen window; peering through the green herbs on my sill to the near bare limbs of the mulberry tree. A bit of life clinging to the skeleton of summer, refusing to let go...refusing the total separation.
I feel a bit like the tree. A bit of life, four more days with my husband here, then he separates to Africa. It will be months, perhaps a year before he touches American soil again.
I want to scream and say don’t go. Let me make soup, and bread, and we’ll drink wine and listen to Vivaldi and talk of good things, and hold hands, and lean against each other.
Son and daughter-in-law leave for Italy in ten days, for three years. I want to say “wait a bit longer… We’ll laugh and have coffee and eat at restaurants and pretend we’re carefree.
I want the days to lengthen into longer evenings. I want more time before winter, but the leaves are separating. They are blown about to different areas. And I stand on the porch and watch, and wait for the smell of wet earth.