excerpts of now

twenty. almost twenty-one, but not quite.

this is life now.

lots of autumn walks to coffe-shops. alone. down the hill two miles, up the hill two miles. latte in hand on the way back up.

insulated boots that she wears every day slipping through leaves and past homes painted blue and red and orange -- their doors adorned with twig wreaths.

outside in the dark, she makes kindling for a morning fire. chops a log into fine bits, takes the knife and peels back thin slices. nature's fire-starting-newspaper.

they will drink tea and coffee around this fire. started with one match. she feels accomplished.

sometimes the children's hands are warm, but sometimes they are cold. either way, they are so small, and they fit into her hand as they go on chilly hikes.

she knows what they mean when point and say, "go."
but she also knows what they mean when they run up and hug her in the morning, in their down, puffy jackets.
or when she tells one of them goodbye for the day, and the little girl pauses for a moment… will she get off her bike and give her a hug goodbye?
no, today is an air high-five. "give me five!"
that's the language they know.

"I washed my home this weekend," the teacher says, and it reminds her of her father pressure-washing the house before he scratched away the paint.

she feels like washing everything here. sometimes she washes her hair twice a day. her face three times a day.
her towels a little less often.

she tries to read at night.
the book in her hand is from her mom, shipped from amazon, but reminds her of Barnes & Noble pretzel and hot cocoa dates.

it reminds her of thursday nights, picked up from school, a trip to the bookstore. organic, non-genenitcally modified pizza for dinner. and then for lunch the next day.

it reminds her of falling asleep on the couch, the sound of her mother's snores waking her up, the sound of her father entering the home after band practice, guitar in tote.

it reminds her of home.