Like the glove into which evil slips its haggish hand

Our already tiny world lately has become even smaller and remarkably quiet, although never to the letter thanks to our forever constructing neighbors, but nevertheless our minds are slowly tapering into being fully concentrated on the present, yet its colorful details already forwardly project the potential of all that’s to come in summer.

This kind of tranquility, rather new to us because pre-Covid we were so used to entertaining guests and hosting family and friends, has a different and peculiar voice and I’m still figuring out its words and how to share them.

One could also argue that as of late I’m just too lazy to write, a flagellation that I am only too happy to engage in myself, like the glove into which evil slips its haggish hand before the scourging starts, but even I have to admit my energy levels have greatly improved in this same period, closing the not insignificant gaps in garden maintenance seemingly effortless.

An unexpected visit yesterday afternoon from our neighbor living in a nearby hamlet on top of our hill, who has to get through this confinement all alone which led to the production surplus among her chickens she kindly came to share, brought clarity. Or, as Ivory put it: “God, I missed that.”

It was just a simple cup of coffee, some small talk about nothing really and a little tour around our p’tit domaine to show off the changes, but I knew exactly what he meant and couldn’t agree more. Her eyes, enthusiastically and irrepressibly feasting on our beloved view, the sheer endless rolling hills currently painted vibrantly yellow, instantly gave it a dimension I totally forgot existed.

Eager for the return of a bigger world, I visited our pharmacy today to inquire about The List we are on and what to expect time wise. Perhaps it was her disenchanted answer that young Ivory’s age has for now disqualified him, her comprehensible message that everything depends on the flow of her supply – today none, yesterday one bottle of five doses – or her final “sur quinze jours” from nowhere, but I guess my best bet to enlarge our reach and convey Les Pierres enchantment is end this wordlessness and return to a more regular writing scheme.