Bleak fragile fiddleheads and big fluttery farfalle. Nora and I swing our grocery bags as we wander down to our house, making up new meanings for BFF. I am impressed with her Italian word.
The offer we considered putting on a house up the street gets out bid by a hundred thousand dollars and we are relieved: we have no intentions of being that stupid. Some poor family is either stuck for a home or they got caught in the frenzy or they didn’t wander around the house with a man who builds houses to know the wiring was shot, the drain tiles needed replacing, there is asbestos to contend with and the city owns a third of the back yard.
My brother calls with news of no inheritance.
I am simply at peace that the past is settled.
I dream of a Howe Sound view on Bowen island. How quiet. I could write there in reams. But I suspect I am looking at an East Van rental to get us through the schooling years. And that’s okay. As long as I have love and a garden. I can make anything home. I can make my office near any stove top espresso.
I finish the first act of my opera. Woof. That feels good. Then I bake a chocolate cake to celebrate. We are off to see friends who will carry the conversation. I am content to listen tonight…and muse to myself about the bashful fresh festivals, big fat flies, bouncy frilly fairies and belligerent foppish flippers.
