“You think you’ll ever do it?” he asked.
“Do what?” she responded in own ask uncertain of question’s meaning.
“Follow your feminine urge, uproot and make this place your home?”
She’d thought upon it many times. Never spoken, he read it mind, in the expression of her thoughts in times when she was both distant and away—and, too, in the peace she lived when they were there.
She didn’t know.
She shrugged, symbol-sign of her uncertainty.
“I don’t know. Somedays, I think ‘yes.’ Somedays, I think ‘no.’ There is much I love in the greater world I believe that I would miss. Maybe it’s a gift of blessing to have place in both farm and city—to not have to choose, at least not yet, when neither heart nor soul scream in demanding that I should. I am loving and enjoying all, especially life when we are here. If I tried to make it more, maybe something’d change and losing the balance I feel for the two, I’d lose my love for both: the city and this place.”
She walked about the kitchen as yellow rays of morning rise cast into room through small window over sink. She tousled her hair as she moved in stride, a small habit when she mused, and sight of combed strands in catch of the sun added to enchantment and soul-peace of place and scene.
Each new time they went, the less he wished to leave. As she had spoken, hi soul did not scream—demanding him to choose—but, still, it spirit spoke; and when it did, he listened.
He listened to his spirit, not in scream but whisper, inviting him to stay. He loved the way it spoke to him within his calm and peace.
In listen to his soul right then, though he did not feel or notice that it had, something changed in his expression, something she could read and see, and seeing, her own expression changed. A lightness and new levity appeared in curiosity of her eyes in wondering on the change, in him, she saw.
“What? What are you thinking?” she asked, eyes’ asking as the words.
She stood before small window in which the light fell through. Luminous in frame, she was beautiful in the light: glow-radiance of hair lit in bodied fall; line of light over shoulder’s crest, filament thin, thread-fine of gold above clean white of morning gown; shade of her face, eyes and features still clear, resplendent even in shadow.
“That you are beautiful…that I love it here…and that, though my soul doesn’t scream—just as you said—often, I hear it whisper, and I love the way it speaks.”
“Is it speaking now?”
“I believe it is.”
“And what does it say?”
“That you are beautiful and I love you and we should stay a while more. We don’t have to rush away…”
She moved from stand before window’s frame, and in the light again he saw on her face tint of blush that, in shadow, he could not see.
She crossed her arms before her chest feeling the press of her own holding wrap. A smile started as she gazed, present and distant, outward through the window onto world and scene around.
Her smile raised to quiet laugh as right arm released from wrapping hold beginning back to musing comb—spirit light and mind in weight for the musings that she made. Eyes returned from near and far of outward look on world falling downward onto rug and hardwood floor.
“It’s strange,” she spoke, mind in thought and eyes in study of rug’s pattern that she’d placed, “just now, soul whispered to me the same.”