The soft shades of blue in the wildflowers enchant me. The last few years I’d noticed my increasing desire to look at the flowers along the fence row, instead of looking at the wrecks. So many wrecks, so little of myself allowed to help.
Gazing at the flowers in the vases on the windowsill enables me to breathe more slowly and deeply. Sometimes I chose red ones, sometimes orange or yellow. They are worth the space they take growing in the greenhouse.
The warriors will return. They are returning. And they remember. Others will look at them and not comprehend what they are seeing. They’ve been in the trenches, their young lives cut short, but not before experiencing the horrors, the awful waste.
This last adjustment period, in late autumn, was more seamless than in the past. There’s no need to keep checking the time on the isle. No traffic, no sirens. There’s no light pollution; I can see the stars at night.
The warriors knew it was important to make a stand for home and country. Most followed through with their duty, even with the fears of callow youth. Sacrificing their lives for power and profit for the few was not worth the price.
It’s vibrant here. By the time the snow fell, I felt at home. The visual nuances are beautiful; others might find it rather monochrome. The minimal objects are useful and presented in a pleasing manner.
I felt compelled to decorate for the holidays, to lift the heaviness in the world, and I feel like I’m waiting.
They had attended meetings. They healed. They clarified their valued. They are returning in groups.