Day Twelve

This evening is quite possibly the most lovely evening of them all. All, of course, being the last week or so which seems to be the extent of my memory capacity these days. The breeze is a caress across my throat and shoulders, the temperature so sublime that you know you could lay naked and not really be able to tell where your flesh ends and the air begins. Yet, as I sit here I cannot help but notice there are...needs. Two of the lights are out on the glowing strands that drape about the pillars. One of the curtains has somehow pulled away from the anchor and is hanging with a tab loose in the wind. My favorite basil has gone utterly to seed in the last four days, I swear.

Maintenance. The truth behind the screen of every performance, all the magic acts, everything that works/functions/continues...maintenance. Beauty and flavor and light come from the sweat and scrapes of someone who is tightening the screws and mowing the grass and doing the dishes. My porch is my retreat. The place I end the day with music, a glass of wine, and a good book; sometimes contemplation, often excellent companions. I've had passers-by admire the porch, wistful a bit, one told me she's using mine for inspiration which is a fantastic compliment, but I want to somehow tell them - it's just effort. There's nothing on this extension of wood and brick that is expensive. Flea markets and thrift stores and stapling things to the ceiling. However, there is a great deal of perspiration involved. Same thing goes for parenthood, relationships, and success in general.

Sweat is a currency, maintenance a prophecy, and effort damn near a crystal ball.