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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Tuesday, Feb. 11, 2003 @ 11:53 am
The countdown begins. I've given my notice - officially I have 75 days left in my powder blue bedroom, 74 days left in my orange vine-tangled kitchen, 73 days left on my eighty-acres of vineyard and sheep paddock… There are images in my head of so many wonderful mornings when the sun was rising though the hopeful misting of fog. I can see the way the rooster shakes his shimmering tail, and I can see the clouds and the sky in the mottled blue eyes of the sheep.
I'm sad to leave, but I've had my time. It's a gift, and I am ready to pass it away.
The rooms I’ve lived in number chapters of my life. Without a doubt, this chapter has been the best so far.
How many chapters have I lived in? There is home. There are four different residence addresses on my bank statements. Finally, there is the Farm. Where will Chapter 7 be?
There's nothing holding me here. There are few people here I would regret leaving.
I see wide-open spaces.
If only we could go all the way over to Russia. I want to find that village - the empty ruins -from where Grandma and Grampa fled. It lies somewhere East of the Black Sea: The Promised Land, she called it, the green fertile valley where there was peace. They ran because they refused to fight in battles. Peaceful, gentle, and I see it in my mother when she defuses all angry situations. I saw it in Grandma, how she understood. I can see her still, standing between the rows of onions looking down over the Columbia towards Castlegar. I could see her from where I climbed up on the Lion's Head. The heads of the purple pansies fluttered in the lazy heady wind. I saw it in her greying face, dull against the bleached sheets and the white roses.
When I held that handful of damp earth I promised her I'd grow things. The dirt rebounded off the roses and a man started to shovel while we knelt still at the side.
My history is paltry in the macroscopic lay of things. I'll grow things, soon, I'll grow things.
Achene: The seed of the dandelion. So soon I'll lift off and wind will fill my downy pappus. When I return, I'll settle into the soil, sprout roots and drink it up. I'll find a way to live on that island. I will. I will.
I too will stand among the fluttering purple pansies.