this is my husband's home

Concrete beneath my feet feels unfamiliar, and I am thankful for the cushioned soles of my shoes to soften its blows to my body heavy with babe inside. I walk in the cool of the morning past barns humming with generators and gardens growing wild with final tomatoes and burgeoning squashes. I smell silage fermenting and hear willows swaying. This is my husband’s home. To him all this recalls memories vivid and sweet of summers spent barefoot, helping grandfathers fix fences and parents gather in cows for milking. I gaze at fields green and barns white and corn lined up with perfection. How different it is from the wildness I have come from, where even maize refuses to grow in any predictable way. But I am here now, though we are only passing through. And it is serene. And I let the breeze and sun and scent of farm soak into my pores.