(Written yesterday and then Keith surprised me by coming home for lunch and it didn't get published.)
I forgot all about the fact that it was Palm Sunday yesterday. I miss the pomp and circumstance of that sort of structure, the way it weaves all the seasons together with religious meaning.
Today I logged onto my old blog and found I'd gotten some new followers, even though I haven't written on that blog for...half a year, I guess. Two of them are young Army wives going through a deployment. My heart goes out to them.
For as long as Keith is stationed here, he'll be outside the deployment cycle. If we'd stayed in CO, he'd be actively preparing for his third. We already know we're moving to GA sometime this fall though. The Armour Center is being transferred there.
This will seem like a strange little interlude in our life, when we look back at it. I'll forget the look of this house, the steep wooden stairs to the cellar with a full load of wash and the morning sun through the kitchen window. We'll move on into the heart of Southern Living and here the moss will grow deeper in the damp back yard. Other people will come and go, many other Army wives.
I'm looking forward to the move; we haven't lived here long enough for this to feel like home. Though as the spring comes on, it does get more and more beautiful. The forsythia are in bloom now, and with the daffodils, the landscape of green is frothed over with exuberant yellow blooms.
When Keith retires and we have our forever house, I am going to plant me some loads of forsythia bushes, all along the drive way and under trees and I'll have lilacs as well, huge banks of lilacs and the children will play in the little shady spaces underneath, on the cool packed earth.
But for Georgia, I hope we find a rental house that has a fenced in back yard and a two car garage. Such things, we have learned the hard way, are essential for the Indiana household.
I have loads of laundry to wash and the house to clean. Scraps of cotton like casualties from the sewing battlefield lie strewn across the dining room table and limp upon the floor. Dog hair has drifted up against the baseboards. Ladybugs lie on dusty side tables and windowsills where they gave up the ghost and the couches have disappeared under a mountain of digiprint gear. Empty tin cans march drunkenly across all surfaces where their sergeant has left them, smelling the sickly sweet smell of tobacco leaves and spearmint.
I need a second cup of coffee.
