Gifts from the Neighbor Women, Ages 38, 52, and 72

They came bearing boxes of tomatoes and squash from the garden. A shirt held at the belly to drape as a basket, filled with green and pink eggs from the chickens. A bottle of cream in an old bottle with a peeling label. An extra muffin freshly baked that morning. I gave them herbal broth, stories, and resources.

They came to share these gifts and to share time together. They came to know me and for me to know them, speaking in fortified whispers and casting our eyes to the hills. Sharing a space, a time, a sentiment. Sharing in the experience of summer joy and loss, asking unanswered questions, and watching the remaining trees start to drop their leaves. Listening to the giant machines pass by and vibrate the windows, falling timber rattle the floorboards, leaves and twigs speckling the roof in staccato song.

They left with warm embraces, questions to ponder, and stories to unfold. These, the gifts of extras and of beginnings.