“…be my house, strong and sturdy far from town, oh;
be my home, just think of all the places we will go…”
_____
Year by year, she watched it grow—strawberry patch in runner-spread across the farm place lawn. Begun as three small cuttings, it was summer blanket of layers and levels of green and hidden fruit beneath.
She had never meant, but in the years and time and way of change, it was a living sign of home—out of something small, with time and love and space, something more became.
The house, she thought, was temporary place; and escape and respite from city life when exhausted and run down; her soul like the arable land around—never given rest. But in the lawn, in the house—where soul and heart found time and love and space—something more became; just as strawberries in the lawn.
She picked them then, herself like patch, in wear of green in loose-fall dress affording mobility for labor and for comfort. She stooped and knelt, moved leaves to side in find of the fruit beneath.
She thought of his hands—smiling and warming, face blushing as strawberries in their ripen—in same through greened gown-cover.
She thought of a song, its spirit in theme; simple requests—seemingly small—in make of a lifetime’s more.
They could go anywhere, do anything, but—together—they chose to stay; making a home and a life in peace of a place where—given space and time and love—family and roots and fruit of a life grew year by year like strawberries across the lawn.