The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out. I don’t blame him. I feel like doing the same. We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats. Three of them. Two are 16 years old. A gift to Forrest when he was three. Because his mother doesn’t like mice. I had never had good luck with cats. None lasted with me for more than a year. Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional. Mostly, I guess, just bad luck. Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car. Guess my luck (and theirs) changed. Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now. But you know, there’s still great value in that.
First the horses. Then the chickens. Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS. This dog knows something is up.
Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow. Time for us to pack. Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.
Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester. College in Canada.
Seven thousand miles away we’ll be. Geez. 7000 miles. It looks like less when I write it that way. Or his way. Over 11,000 km. No, that way is bigger. Way bigger. Let’s not go there.
I was not ready to see him go. I never am. I wonder if I ever will be.