It was so quiet here. Just a car or two every once in a while, the travelling crunch of gravel quickly dissipating before reaching the porch. And occasionally the distant rattle of a tractor, a jet scraping across the sky.
The best part was the trees. The little white house was enveloped by trees. Embraced by them.
The trees are what she misses most. The vibrant colours of autumn, the crackle of leaves falling to the roof. Bare wintry branches and their muffled creaks as cold crept into the dampened trunks. The dark, leafy canopy of summer that eclipsed the sun, but let the quiet warmth dissolve down.
From every room you could hear the wind rush though the leaves, a sound as soft as water or triumphant as applause. It thrummed over the roof, beyond the road and what lay ahead.
The best part was the trees. Even as the house shifted. And shifted.
barbara fletcher 