ping

As I write, jars of peach syrup “ping” as they cool. Fifteen pounds of plums picked from the neighbor’s neglected tree sit on the counter awaiting the same pureed fate.  All three boys are in bed after a full day: some school, some sword fighting, a visit with friends, and lots of reading and being read to.  Their bodies wrestle under the sheets after another well-lived and perfectly ordinary day.  At home.  

H O M E.  

It’s a little bit location.  It’s a lot of other things: contentment, service, commitment, gratitude, work, imperfection, love.  My feet are sinking into this dirt.  This grass is plenty green.

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