I lingered on the back porch this morning with my coffee after the dogs finished their breakfast, listening to birds chirp their confusion over the unseasonal cool temperatures and the wind play rough with the trees.
The sun was shining, and I could see the surface of our little pond sparkling through the new spring leaves of surrounding trees. I sat in the middle of a dream-come-true started thirty years ago, and wondered how I was going to say goodbye.
We're going to have to sell out and go somewhere else. Barring some miracle, along the lines of me writing a million-dollar bestseller or one of us winning the lottery, it's the only way we're going to climb out of the debt-sinkhole we've slipped into.
Tom figures it will take him two years to get the place in shape to sell. We started on it almost twenty years ago, moved in almost ten years ago, but it's not finished yet. Once we moved in, we weren't in a rush...until now. But Tom wants to see it the way he envisioned it in the beginning, so he's not rushing through doing a halfass job.
In my heart I know God led us here, so if it's his will we stay, we will, even if we don't see how right now. Maybe we've done what we were supposed to do here and he has some other job for us elsewhere. If so, I'll just give thanks for the time we've had in this little piece of heaven. We've been blessed and nothing can take that away.
Meanwhile, I'm going to linger and cherish and soak as much of Long Hollow as possible into my soul. I don't think I've ever taken it for granted, but I especially won't now. I'll push thoughts of goodbye off to the edge, only close enough to remind me to appreciate this day, and the next, and the next, and then I'll cherish the memories.
...While I pray for a miracle.