They opened door. Little was changed from last when she was there: order of home, make of the beds, wood’s stack by stove and stone-hearth’s sides.
All was as she’d left it—waiting—patient for her return.
They carried in their bags and left the front door open. She desired wild as much as home and left one open to the other—not closing door and drawing windows open where she knew she’d lie or rest beside.
He lit a fire in the hearth, and too the stove beside. In take; kindled, sustained, and controlled, they left the fires the burn and the home to warm as they went to sit on western porch.
Overcast remained in the sky. There would be no glory-eve; but such was Holy Saturday—gray and cast of a depression.
Rain had ended and last sounds of so spoke soft and light in slow gathered drops in fall down guttered spouts and the same from trees in collecting drip and fall from blossoms, seeds, and awning leaves to dampened strike upon the lawn; absence of sound where one was expected a truer sound of fall.
Holding hands, they sat in rest and observe of evening’s state. Tin-strike sound of gutter’s drip, and the soundless sound drops to grassed lawn. Birds spoke soft, not in song, in harbored sanctuaries as sodden dried. A wind was there, alternating in blow from north and out of west. Changing, it swayed the lightest bows in trees to the shiftings of its source.
Inside the home, fire built—a heat heavy and strong in room-fill presence that led them to strip and bare too temper the heat; it’s light and warmth and willed baring of selves inspiring other in its take.
Both knew, both waited, patient in the peace.
Both were happy they were there. It was where they wished to be; and rather than wait and defer and give reason why they shouldn’t, desiring, they went.
“I am happy we are here,” he spoke.
She knew, but he wanted still to say.
With thumb he petted lifelines in palm of her hand, a gentleness that further soothed as a wind stirred and struck in sweep of new that raised giggle as she sensed; a sound of lightness and simple joy as hair caught and danced, faint in lift and spread in fan before fall and restore in return to place as lightness of her laughter stayed in sound and life-coloring her face.
She held to his hand, tightening in squeeze before softening back—trace of his touch still to palm in read of lifeline feel—warmth and softness, furrow of course in crease and fold of hands that worked and willed.
With other hand, she brushed her hair away from face into pin behind ear’s hold; light of her eyes, pupils grown and widened, dark, in overcast of sun; enchanting, though changed, from way when glory shone.
“I know,” she answered simply.
He knew, but she wanted still to say.
Overcast and the damp eve sky cooled them in their rest; and in their quiet and their peace they thought to build of heat within, waiting for their rise where naked and free, illumed of hearth, control and temper ceded to heavy and strong of room-fill presence of second-fire’s take until passion was as embers, and they faded, spent from glow, until gentle blow in morning stir woke in them flame again.
His lifeline trace, still to hers, her thumb traced in path to his; shift of wind, stir in their rest, inspired gentle-meet of kiss; heat through open door inviting through night-shading of the gray.
They laughed. They smiled–patient, waiting—for full of fire’s build.