I pitched my tent in the backyard last weekend. Like an 8 year old boy I dragged my prized possessions haphazardly to my blue castle and tossed them in, rolling clumsily after them. I sat there rapped in my ripped-ripping patchwork quilt, exhausted. Gosh, I was so tired on Friday. After walking to the bank I could hardly keep my head up. Logical fix: pitch the tent.
With crisp sun-splashed air and not a trace of snow, it was the perfect day to introduce Raspberry to 2011. In the backyard.
Throughout the next couple days I read a few pages of capote, a few pages of works of love, wrote a little about the child of this new Spring, drank out of my clouding mason jar, listened to music from home, and to the birds mingle with traffic I could not see. For hours I did this.
Sunday morning I ran across frosted wet grass barefoot, pulled up the stakes, rolled the tent and the tarp into a heap and ran back inside, throwing them in the corner of the foyer. What had been my haven now sits in a puddle in a corner inside. It's not where it wants to be forever, but right now it's okay there, for as soon as the sun shines again and the sugar snow melts away, it's going back outside where it belongs.
Just like me.
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