It’s 4:30. I hear the rain outside. I take a deep breath.
The moment is refreshing.
The tin roof, of my small, house in the hood, accentuates the sound of the drops. The wind will gust, from time to time. I don’t have to be outside to see it. The trees, in this area, are majestic and what brought me here, to my home in the hood. I don’t know their names, but I know them, personally; their colors, their barks, their moss.
This house, turned home, was a dream. One of many.
Fifteen years, of dwelling, in this humble abode – my castle.
It holds a piece of my spirit. My energy is invested in it, and it is invested in me.
The bamboo, in the backyard is my jungle, framed by a wooden fence. The green grass is drinking right now. It’s a sliver of comfort that satisfies a need for convention. My coveted palapa, covering my coveted picnic table, is surrounded by pebbles, making neat rectangles, that surround the white pea sized rock, that is the floor of the outdoor room. It is my porch, under a tree, that everyone thinks is dead in the winter time.
The pebbles are contained by red, stepping stones. They are square, forming a larger patterned square, that borders the pebbles, surrounding the rocks. As I walk around in my backyard, I am the little Catholic girl that doesn’t step on the grass. I move precariously across the path, one step at a time.
In my mind, I easily become a child playing hopscotch.Not in any order, but placed through the walk, the steps will have three, side by side. I don’t skip. I just look and remember.
On the right, looking out my back door, there is a rectangle, of ground cover. It often blooms small, yellow flowers. Heavy rocks are scattered underneath the green, they are leftovers from the round, fire circle that I had a Puerto Rican man build for me. I don’t know his name either. He use to come around a lot. I miss him.
I can have a fire this morning, if I want. My wood is in a green container, in the corner.
The front yard is another story, with it’s confederate jasmine, succulents, mexican tulips, hedges, fences, pathways, a Tiki Man and a surfboard painting in the gable ( that rests perfectly, a yellow sun, smiling in front of blues waves and white flowers).
A palm tree stands centennial.
I am surrounded by a menagerie of multi cultured people. They are the best. I can see their smiles.
I live in the best neighborhood, on the island.
And I have the deed, which is a ticket to a dream, which is a ticket to a deed.
Over my should, the oven door rattles a bit, the earth feels the shake, of the fire breathing dragon, that roars in the distance (a paper mill). I have begun to hear traffic faintly to the west.
The wind blows and the clock ticks.
And the moment feels refreshing.
*posted the following morning