Originally posted on Southern Exposure:
It’s not summer, but it might as well be. The days are oven-warm, green and damp and choked with leaves. The magnolia grandiflora are in bloom—giant evergreens that explode with foot-wide flowers and dwarf the other trees.
Soon we will have been here for eleven months. Here feels a lot like home: four walls holding steady when so much else has changed. I quit my job. I sold my mother’s car for scrap and bought a used, blue ford with bluetooth and a fancy radio. We’ve hung pictures, driven nails into the walls, and filled the pantry drawer with staple grains. We’ve strung a paper lantern with a solar bulb out front. Magnolia the miracle dog is now a few weeks into her new regime of isolation (on trainer’s orders)—blinds drawn, other dogs avoided, fed kibble-by-kibble until she acclimates to calm. Were it not for the robustness of this life…
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