This is how he spells his love: wresting cedar posts into position, mixing cement, and framing out the door for the coop, using the funky top-half of a Dutch door that I've had my heart set on. These are not his projects, but he makes the so, for me. And I can't help grinning watching him move, biceps sweat slicked, scratching our initials into the cement of the final post.
These are the days that imprint like sun spots on my memory. Iced espresso and buttered cinnamon toast carried out on a white metal tray for an afternoon snack. Bean with mud on his knees, loading gravel into his dump truck. The field windswept and freckled with daisies and black-eyed-susan's, and the sky above blue with a ragged tatter of clouds. The beginning of things to last: the phantoms of future raspberry bushes, an asparagus patch, bowls of new summer lettuce, and pastel eggs nestled into hay.
How did you spend your weekend?