It rained today. Before it came, I finished planting of a field and, after accomplishment and when it struck, returned home under its soft fall and patter sound.
Home, I began into cleaning on a shop beside our home.
When my family arrived, Owen held behind in car. I was told he was in a mood, and I let him be.
After a few minutes, I checked on him. He was reading a book, never moving from his seat. He just needed a little quiet, a little time alone—to read and be in his mind.
I understood.
We are alike that way. His trait is mine.
I told him that I loved him, leaving him to his book and thoughts.
I love that part of him as I do its part of me.
Having said what I wished to say, I returned to the shed and cleaned on a winter’s worth of accumulation I had neglected and failed to put in order.
I worked and, as I did, went too into my mind; restored in the quiet and time for thought each both find in our own places, by our own means.
In the after, settled and ordered, I felt better for it all. Walking into home, meeting Owen in play, I could see: so did he.