Something had woken her up. She lay there listening carefully, but no other sound than the deep, slow breathing of her husband beside her could be heard. Her hand stretched out, the fingers curled carefully around the glass, cold from the night air which had slipped into the room since they went to bed. Slowly the glass was raised to her lips. She drank deeply…
Her thoughts wandered to all the memories which had entered her life the past year. The gradual move to the farm, to all the kind souls who had helped in one way or another. The talking, the decisions, the waiting, the driving, the carrying.
She had broken her arm, the arm she uses most, trying to move some fallen trees. Six weeks the arm had been in a cast, six valuable weeks when she should have been able to help out with the move.
Her thoughts moved on to the death of her mother in June. Sitting at the bedside waiting for her last tortuous breath to be drawn. An experience she never had had before. She saw the coffin in her mind’s eye, covered in beautiful wild flowers. The simplicity of the funeral, just as her mother had wanted it. Warm voices filling the little church with the melody of childhood psalms.
Just a year before, the death of her father.
Then there was the final move. The sale of the house in town, the packing and the unpacking. The hour long drives back and forth, back and forth. Time to think, time to plan, time to make sure that the decisions they had made were right.
The arrival of their lovely animals. Another memorable moment, another momentous decision. The responsibility they had taken on was not to be taken lightly. When one of them miscarried, sadness enveloped their hearts and underlined the responsibility they had taken on. The little heart shaped stone covering the grave a silent reminder.
Through all this, her work ran on, demanding attention no matter what. The days were filled to the brim, with no time left over for creativity other than that which was needed for the project they had taken on.
There had never been a moment of doubt that they should make this move, and yet at times the words had been spoken «have we done the right thing?» Yes, they were sure. Over dinner last night they had talked about it again and both had expressed how comfortable they were with the decision. The words entered her heart and she felt settled. Yes, this was their home now, this is where they would stay. Hopefully for the rest of their lives.
She wondered if her readers would understand, if they could sense all that had happened in the months gone by and if they would come back to her once she had started to write again.
She now knew what had woken her up. The words were finally back and she had to get them down on paper before they were lost again. She carefully slipped out of bed, her feet touched the cold floor. Picking up her night gown, pad and pen she went downstairs to the kitchen and sat down to write.