We plotted and pointed, making plans for how big we wanted the space, how much we wanted to attempt to mow and contain.
It was just the two of us out there of course, but just like the other plans we’ve made for this colossal house project we embarked upon a few years ago, I couldn’t help but visualize the kids who might roll around in that grass someday, staining the knees of their jeans.
Husband, to make a point, stepped in the middle of the yard, grabbed an imaginary football and threw it across the imaginary grass.
“We want to make sure that there’s enough room here to throw a football,” he said.
I smiled and said “you’re right,” and then we were quiet for a beat or so, just long enough to let hope in before our hearts broke for the thirteen-millionth time in our lives.
We have a good life. We’re building one out here with passion and optimism for a nice little future, one that we always thought would include children.
And on a ranch, kept together solely because of and for the sake of the generations, my husband and I walk with the silent urgency of creating the next.
I will tell you there is no quiet like the quiet of hopes not yet realized.
Coming Home: Sharing home with the next generation
by Jessie Veeder