In My Backyard

Photo by Samantha Osborne
Photo by Samantha Osborne

I am in my backyard.

The hammock moves gently, rhythmically with the weight of my body. A book sits propped up by a pillow on my lap.  My eyes dart over words so familiar now, they are comforting. I could read a new author, a new book, but why risk it? I stick to one I know and love, for this time is precious and my mind wants only to wander, not to think.

Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks plays on repeat. A wine glass swings lazily from fingertips so relaxed it seems the glass will slip through them at any minute and shatter, destroying my peace.
It doesn’t though – not today.

The sun peeps through a gap in the trees and I squint up at the sky, watching the clouds move on.

‘To be born again, to be born again.’

The sun has come out just for me.

It’s all here – the sound of my children playing, the wry smile I get from his little corner of the garden as he watches me through the passion fruit vine.

I have made it. I am here. I am back.

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