To be a wildflower.

I am home. I know because I am standing outside, barefoot, toes curling in the damp grass. I can’t do that in Rome; my feet would find nothing but pavement, which would scorch my skin in the blazing summer sun. Here, too, it will be a hot day. The dew is already warm against the soles of my feet. Thank god, we’ve had nothing but rain.

In an attempt to quiet my mind, I slump into the porch swing with a creak, and use my left foot to gently push the swing back and forth, while considering the view. There are cows. There is laundry.

I’m thinking about that time when my sister was small, and my dad handed her a butterfly net for her to entertain herself with in the yard. She returned ten minutes later with a bird. Needless to say, he was surprised. She was six.

I hear a baby crying. I look to my left and see Frank, the neighbour, pacing his yard with Oliver, his new baby, in his arms. My eyes take in the pool, the trampoline, the golden doodle trailing behind Frank and the baby…Frank is twenty-six.

I see my mom’s “indoor” cat dart into the flowers by the shed. The gardens have really taken off this year, and amongst the hostas and the glads, there are uninvited wildflowers springing up madly, whimsically, without pattern. They disrupt the order of the carefully planned flower bed, though I enjoy the effect of chaos that they bring.

The heat bugs start their chorus.

I look up at the sky, bright blue and without a cloud, and see a dragonfly the size of a bird lazily rising up towards the top of the large maple.

What time is it anyways?

Goodmorning! Calls Frank over the fence, over the sound of Oliver’s crying.

Goodmorning, I call back.

Maybe I’ll go pick some tomatoes.

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