Dear Glenda:
I sit outside, on this beautiful acre of land, thinking about you, as usual. I have my thirteen-foot trailer here on my aunt's property. Someday, this place will be mine.
Today is a taste of summer. I sit among gorgeous blue wildflowers, day lillies, and star-shaped wildflowers, and green grass. I love this place, Goose Ridge. I'm slowly turning this place into a park.
I think about you every day. I don't really know you, but there is something about you that has captivated me. I imagine your big white Cadillac coming up the road. I see it approach, and I make a bee line to the gate. You see me, and stop. We have a nice talk: "Yes, I live here." It was a nice day, like today, and you decided to take a drive. You found yourself on Bowman road, then Rager. You saw my lilacs and honeysuckles, my young ten-foot poplar. You saw how somebody cares for this place, and you sensed something. Then you saw me walking up the driveway. "Oh, there's Cary."
Each month, I count the days until I can see you again. Our transaction is so brief. Two months ago, I came in and got you alone, so I could tell you that I like you. You told me your husband died ten years ago, and you were not ready. You said you were flattered. I left. I never did that before. For me to stand before a stranger, and unburden myself...that's a big thing. Last month, we talked of wildflowers, and how the spring rains made the grass grow. I was relieved that there was no awkwardness on your part, nor on mine. Ten years isn't all that long, is it? People think it is, but it's not. I feel you're still in mourning. I can wait. I'd wait for you until mountains become hills. And I'm not sure why.
Maybe someday, I can share Goose Ridge with you.
