night time at the farm.

There’s always a part of every July Fourth that leaves me feeling more whole than broken,

more established than misplaced.

The fireworks lighting up the sky.

The sameness of tradition and wonder.

The lovely simplicity of this beautiful porch

where the only view is green and trees and a river’s edge.

And then there are the quiet quiet moments.

Long after dark has settled on the green

and I step outside to let go of all my breath

and I stand beneath the stars and the haze and the clouds and the Virginia moon breaking through it all.

I’m standing on the bottom porch steps,

a little in love with the quiet that is the night time after-the-party-has-ended.

I feel an arm over my shoulder.

I lean in because I know this man who is and the boy who was.

(I remember first meeting him, in fact.  He was an infant.  I was a teenager.)

I slide my arm around his back and we both stand still.

Quiet.

The air.

The stars.

The farm.

The history on this land and in this space.

The walnut trees silhouette across the night sky.

And I love the words he says.

They are just for me.

Just from his heart to mine.

A brother to a sister.

But my heart hears them.

It needs them.

It soaks them up

and stores them low

and I sigh.

Feel the wet on my cheeks.

I feel loved.  Accepted.  Supported.

And I recognize the moment as the gift it is.