There is a sweetness in the air this evening. I would love it to last but it won’t. It can’t. For a moment though, there is rest from anxiety, sorrows, and regrets for what might have been but is not.
This evening I cut back a tall buddleia tree. Its blooms were struggling. Seasonal butterflies were absent. It was finished for this year already, in the drought we are experiencing here.
Praise be. There is a combine harvester at work a tinder-dry wheatfield away. We had a cornfield fire a couple of days ago. It could rain tonight.
There is, even so, a sweetness in the air but not in my bones. I plod along the bypass verge with the support of a stick. Knees and back are painful.
What might have been but what is not? I hold no fairy-tale hopes for what might be. Were my family to be reunited we’d probably fight. We might not even like each other that much. Our inner selves will not in the blink of an eye shelve their resentments and insecurities.
But we would have put past misunderstandings behind us.
May my family break bread together before Mrs Llew and I are dead.
Meanwhile, I walk on.