She's gone. Walked out a few minutes ago for her Sunday service. Quiet now. The rain has been pushed eastward by a westerly cold front. The house, for at least two hours, is all mine.
I've promised to drive her north after her church service. There are flowers to be placed on her father's grave, antique shops to explore, and a seafood lunch. Should be a nice day.
Our drive will take us along the river which gives over to the sea. We'll cross many marshy creeks and tidal flats.
After a few minutes at the cemetery we'll have lunch. I shall insist on my side of fried oysters covered in deep red hot sauce. The tangy salty taste should hold me for a few hours. Then, the stroll of shops. She loves to 'antique.' I don't mind as long as the little caves hold a few manly items.
Things that catch and hold my interest are - bits and pieces of war memorabilia, books, old radios, stock certificates, any firearm related pieces, high quality knives, and vintage male clothing (last year I found a great world war two leather jacket), old hand tools, and believe it or not, unique cook books.
I spent most of yesterday with my two shortwave radios. Reception (skip) was awful. Cuba, no problem. Europe, not so much. Even with my slinky antenna deployed on my Grundig I felt my time wasted. Sadly when I set out my beautiful Zenith Trans-Oceanic I discovered my thirty-one meter button stuck. Darn near cried.
The birds are singing to me. Their music soothes the soul. Many years ago we both awoke within seconds of each the other and stayed in place within our warm bed. It was a clear cool Sunday morning, much like today, and quiet in the house. The birds, just outside our bedroom window, were clear and loud, their songs almost translucent.
She turns to me and asked, "Isn't it beautiful."
"Yes," I said. "But not uncommon on a Sunday."
As I've written, my straight face is world renown...
But, you know what.... prove me wrong.
I close to the music of a Mocking Bird, bright and clear; a tidbit of joy.