My sister’s house was a place I’d visit, now and then, but not as of late, you see. The years became many, and the miles became kilometers, which stretched out between the warm California summers to the cold Danish winters.
My life became something else, than it had been before. I did other things, with other people, yes even doing those things in another language.
My sister’s yard, however, continued along its way, growing and expanding, without any help at all.
I tended and cut, and raked and watered, my present yard and its flowers. I built and tore down. I admired and feared the invasion of springtime weeds, and waited until the flower bulbs gave way to the summer cutting of my lawn.
At my sister’s house, the grasses of springtime had turned their characteristic yellow and brown, accumulating under the pine and oak trees, as if they always had done so. My rake stood silent, as did any mention of me having lived there, or visited when birthdays called out, or a cup of coffee, a tale about something silly, or serious beckoned.
My Danish Dream slept while I left it for a while, breathing in the reality of other places, traveling long distances starting in kilometers, ending in miles returning. Returning to my sister’s house, and her yard refusing to acknowledge my existence, or wanting to extend a hand of greeting.
I raked and I cut. I moved huge piles of downed trees, and observed my work. No one praised my actions, as they were never meant to be. I continued along in my madness, as if it called out to me, reminding me of the 30 or more years, in which I had neglected my duties, neglected to fulfill my rightful place on this side of the world.
My sister’s yard will continue to change and to grow, regardless of where I choose to call home. The leaves and pine needles will continue to accumulate, creating slippery pathways, and an increasing fire danger, year after year.
Existing in a brief moment, between where I am, and where I was, gives me an opportunity to correct my many years of neglect, hoping against hope that my actions will bear some fruit, in the short time that I will exist in this time frame.
My sister’s house. A simple refuge. A point of collecting the family. A rally round meeting of past and present faces, surrounded by the pines and the oaks, dreaming their dreams of someone who used to lean on a rake.
Sweating and toiling under the California sun.
In some place called the past…..