Zoey in our backyard. (Photo: Nancy Harder)
The grass grows fast here in Blacksburg, VA. Faster than the coastal plains of North Carolina. Sand and dune grass were more familiar to my feet growing up than socks or shoes or this dense Kentucky bluegrass.
I drink a local Star Hill Love out on our back porch and let my legs stretch out on the lawn. My feet tingle as blades of grass brush the insides of my toes.
The lush wild, green smell and the sound of nothing particular and everything in the world pulls me away from the confines of memory into the perfect present.
I understand those fabled victims of the Lorelei songstress as I mentally trace the outline of the blue peak in front of me. I understand why people never want to move away from here. I understand why my husband and I have come here.
Not for school, work, or family, despite their weighty influence.
Our souls longed to be sung to, to come to a place where we could breathe with all of our senses, to find a place where we could stretch out like some ole Virginia Creeper.
