I drove down to my house in the country for the weekend, my two two furry sidekicks, Rene and Jacques, seven-pound poodles, riding shotgun. Well, actually Jacques was riding in my lap. When we hit real countryside his small head pops up and he stares out the window. I wonder what he sees, this blur of fields, golden and waving.
We both know when we're in the country. It sinks into our bones. I drive a little bit slower. I visit the sky. He stares out the window. I'm sure he knows where we're going. Rene sleeps, but then he's sixteen. He deserves to sleep. He comes out of his coma when I turn up J to go to our house. Then they both become frantic, out, out, they want to be out of the car.
When I open the door to my house, the calm silence hits me hard. My shoulders sink. I drop my bags and breath in. I love the smell of my house--reminds me of bridal's wreath spirea--dusty and slight spicy, but not as sweet.
We walk down to the very small town—eighty some people on a good day—and say hi to everyone in the shops. My dogs get treats, and I get all the good gossip. We walk back up the hill, feeling satisfied.