I will cherish our time here, and I have every intention of taking the uphill climb to pass its presence in autumn each year. We’ve walked miles in tiny bursts, up and down the road, we’ve seen sunrises and moonrises over the mountain and been buried under thick blankets of snow. One child has doubled in size here, another was born on a cool October night by the wood stove. We have loved this tiny house all the way through we’ve cooked and made medicine with this land’s plants, we’ve eaten fruit from its trees, we’ve bathed in the water.
Only about a mile down the road, bigger, brighter, what we needed. We saw the house in July, made fast plans, and then got to waiting for September to meet us there. The cabin that has held us, sheltered us, kept us close will be passed on to someone new, and we’ll go about taking refuge under a new roof, inside walls whose stories we haven’t yet heard. In just over a week’s time, we’ll be gone.
