Yard Sale of Thoughts

The blindfold fit snugly over my eyes leaving me to smell the damp earth of spring and hear the rapid Morse code twitters of the swallows. I’m yearning to unveil and take in my surprise. 

You shepherd me up a slight incline, perhaps a grassy hillock, but we’ve traveled miles beyond my range of familiarity, and I have only the pressure of your hands herding me upwards to indicate we are ascending something, steeper than I first thought.

Is this trust exercise proof of our intimacy? Planning this day evidence of your fondness, tenderness, passion? We are both breathing heavily when you stop.  Struggle to lift my blinder, as I feel the soft trembling of your hands.

“Ready?” You have a firm grip on fabric.

“Ready as I’m going to be,” and then you pull up, leaving me to look at a herd of fluffy, white sheep ravined below. 

“What do you think of our flock?” You are giddy, spastic, lift me up, my rounded belly not keeping you from twirling me gently in a circle.

Beyond the white sea, you point to a small wooden cabin, open windows blowing green, gingham curtains. A feeder surrounded by birds hangs from a blooming dogwood tree.

“This is ours?”

“All you can see.” But at that moment, I see only your downy face, infinite sunshine, and all the warmth I will ever need.