affection
— the soft language of a caring heart, expressed through the warmth of simply being near
i woke early last morning, to the sound of birdsong.
they began before the sun had quite reached the windows, until the whole forest seemed to be humming. a few of them chattered somewhere beneath the eaves, and farther away i could hear the soft, repeated notes of a bird i have never managed to see.
i stayed in bed for a while, listening to them.
there is something lovely about being awakened by voices that have no idea you are there.
when i finally rose, the morning was golden and clear. sunlight slipped through the curtains and painted pale squares upon the wooden floor. tiny specks of dust floated through the light, dancing whenever i passed through them.
i opened every window, and the house seemed to breathe deeply.
cool air came in carrying the scent of pine needles, wild grass, and the faint sweetness of flowers from the garden. the curtains stirred gently, and somewhere downstairs an old door creaked open by itself.
i spent the morning tidying the kitchen. i folded the linen cloths, arranged the jars upon their shelf, and placed a handful of wildflowers in the little vase by the window. i chose the smallest ones today.
while i was arranging them, i noticed something. one of the flowers i had left on the table yesterday had been moved, only slightly.
it was resting beside the vase instead of inside it, its stem carefully plucked.
i put it back with the others and thought nothing more of it.
later, i walked into the woods. the singing of the birds accompanied me.
a little brown bird hopped along the fence as i passed. when i sat beneath the old oak, it came down onto a branch just above my head and sang for several minutes.
i listened very carefully. it was a simple song, nothing grand — but it made the forest feel less empty.
i picked a few fallen leaves from my dress and watched the sunlight move slowly across the moss. there were tiny white flowers growing between the roots of the trees, so delicate that i almost felt guilty sitting beside them.
i left them where they were.
on my way back, i found the little wooden gate standing open. there it was, gently swinging in the afternoon breeze.
during the evening, i sat on the porch while the sky turned pink between the branches. the birds grew quieter one by one, and i watched them disappear into the trees.
before i went upstairs, i found one small white flower resting on the doorstep. i brought it inside, and placed it beside the others.
i used to think that being here meant loneliness. i don't think that anymore.