Seventy Days

Dabs of mist linger on grass. Spider webs are easy to find. Where yesterday I found half of the wing of a dark feathered bird, there are loose feathers caught on damp foliage. Dog has her nose down, forgets we are playing fetch. There is heat promised, in this humid air.
While we were walking, the washing machine has rumbled to a halt. I roll wet clothes into the basket, lug it out to the line. Hoisted whites lollop in a lazy breeze.
I get one very brown arm sat outside, at the pallet table, attempting to draw an ink-drinking monkey. In this story, the monkey represents chaos.
On my paler arm is a training trophy; an amethyst bruise, bigger than a thumbprint, smaller than a plum.
In the afternoon I brave the fields in flip-flops. I watch my footing, around sheep dung, nettles, thistle leaves, barbed wire, creeping bramble, random rocks, over the ankle twisting grass tufts. I have a flower in my hair. Panting Dog detours to the stream after we rescue a Longwool from a fence tangle.
Voices float down from the house. Farmer Landlord is standing atop a ladder by the brewing kitchen door. Builder Pete is wedged between the bank and the back of the house, lifting up a roof panel to clear out rat’s nests. They both wave hello. Farmer Landlord tenses his shoulders as he turns back to chat with Pete; something about the gesture tells me I had best put the kettle on, there’s bad news coming.
Farmer Landlord holds a mug with an unsteady hand. I’ve put a sugar in for him.
Rosehill will be sold. The last date of legal residence is named as the last day of July, seventy days from now.  


Botanist said…
That's sad news. Have you found anywhere else to move to yet?
Suze said…
Lisa, your words are your ticket to what comes next.

To say you are incredibly talented just feels so abysmally flat to me. I don't like it and yet it is the absolute truth. I want to convey more. I want to urge you that there is something in your capacity to pull worlds like scarves of color in water out of the bowl that will assist you in the coming transitions.

You're meant to be read by more than all of us who love the Soup. I feel like I am reading the words of one of the great scribes of our time.

I hope all of this makes sense.
Lisa Southard said…
Mr Botanist, we have two appointments for house viewings so far, so hopefully it won't be long before we have a new address: thank you for your care :-)
Suze- this will break all (of my own personal) world records for Most Read Comment- have just made a face I can only describe as a humble smirk- if that makes sense! More than merely flattered: encouraged. Thank you for your support, it does make a difference to me xx
Teresa Cypher said…
Oh my! Seventy days... (fewer now). Heartbreaking... I know it has its issues, but it has been home... I will be checking in soon...

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