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Home by
sheafrotherdon
~ 500 words; a wee Iowa snippet.
It's the smell of damp, sun-warmed earth that tells John spring's coming. The trees are still winter-bare, the prairie grass pale and dry by the roadside, and for all that there's a robin in the oak by the barn it's the scent, not the birdsong, that says winter's lost its hold. It's chilly still, despite the sun, and John stands on the porch in the sweet, early quiet, wraps his hands tightly around his coffee mug, rocks on his heels to test the give of the boards. He thinks of tomatoes and neat lines of spinach, of onions pulled from dirt and summer corn, huffs when he catches the curl of his thinking, ambles down the porch steps and out to the yard before daydreams can interrupt the business he woke to do.
Thrown up against the eastern sky, the house is shadowed and secret, the roof a dark line against clouds limned with pink. John pulls at his coffee, rounds the house to the north, eyes the downspout and the siding and the paint. The sills are still strong; the storm windows firm despite another set of blizzards. He should probably clean the gutters again, chase out what he let be when November turned bitter, and an up-close look at the shingles can't hurt.
Below the kitchen window is a pile of rocks – Merrie's industry last summer, a shrine to something that only she knew. There's a chip in the paint at the corner of the porch rail, a dent from a baseball, a trail of fingerprints in an eight-year-old's hand, and John chokes a little to remember that mess, how long it took to get two coats of thick red paint out of Finn's hair, how he and Rodney had held it together until they got to bed then laughed until their bellies hurt, laughed until they cried. There's a crack in the dining room window – Thomas the Tank Engine, launched by a three-year-old, Christmas morning – and he can replace that himself, makes a mental note to buy some putty.
A grumble behind him; big hands grab his mug. "You know I don't sleep well once you get up," Rodney says, crowding against John's side.
"We've got other mugs," John points out. "More coffee in the pot."
"As if that's the point," Rodney mumbles indistinctly, nose buried in the cup. His hair's askew, a pillow crease in his cheek. He comes up for air. "What are you doing, anyway?"
"Chore list," John says, jerking his chin toward the house. "Spring's coming."
"Huh." Rodney looks around them with more interest. "Really?"
"Really." John smiles at his befuddlement, at how city stories can still shape Rodney's world despite the Iowa years he wears so easily. "C'mere," he says fondly, hauling Rodney in to kiss him, steadying him with a hand.
"We could be doing this in bed," Rodney says against his mouth, but he's smiling as he returns the kiss. "We have a very nice bed. King sized. You might remember it."
"Shhh," John murmurs, turns his head to look at their home, slings his arm around Rodney's shoulders. "Say goodbye to winter."
"'Bye, winter," Rodney mumbles, nose in the mug again, but he's warm and solid against John's side, and the robin's found a mate to chatter with companionably, and the kids are still sleeping, and all's right with the world.
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~ 500 words; a wee Iowa snippet.
It's the smell of damp, sun-warmed earth that tells John spring's coming. The trees are still winter-bare, the prairie grass pale and dry by the roadside, and for all that there's a robin in the oak by the barn it's the scent, not the birdsong, that says winter's lost its hold. It's chilly still, despite the sun, and John stands on the porch in the sweet, early quiet, wraps his hands tightly around his coffee mug, rocks on his heels to test the give of the boards. He thinks of tomatoes and neat lines of spinach, of onions pulled from dirt and summer corn, huffs when he catches the curl of his thinking, ambles down the porch steps and out to the yard before daydreams can interrupt the business he woke to do.
Thrown up against the eastern sky, the house is shadowed and secret, the roof a dark line against clouds limned with pink. John pulls at his coffee, rounds the house to the north, eyes the downspout and the siding and the paint. The sills are still strong; the storm windows firm despite another set of blizzards. He should probably clean the gutters again, chase out what he let be when November turned bitter, and an up-close look at the shingles can't hurt.
Below the kitchen window is a pile of rocks – Merrie's industry last summer, a shrine to something that only she knew. There's a chip in the paint at the corner of the porch rail, a dent from a baseball, a trail of fingerprints in an eight-year-old's hand, and John chokes a little to remember that mess, how long it took to get two coats of thick red paint out of Finn's hair, how he and Rodney had held it together until they got to bed then laughed until their bellies hurt, laughed until they cried. There's a crack in the dining room window – Thomas the Tank Engine, launched by a three-year-old, Christmas morning – and he can replace that himself, makes a mental note to buy some putty.
A grumble behind him; big hands grab his mug. "You know I don't sleep well once you get up," Rodney says, crowding against John's side.
"We've got other mugs," John points out. "More coffee in the pot."
"As if that's the point," Rodney mumbles indistinctly, nose buried in the cup. His hair's askew, a pillow crease in his cheek. He comes up for air. "What are you doing, anyway?"
"Chore list," John says, jerking his chin toward the house. "Spring's coming."
"Huh." Rodney looks around them with more interest. "Really?"
"Really." John smiles at his befuddlement, at how city stories can still shape Rodney's world despite the Iowa years he wears so easily. "C'mere," he says fondly, hauling Rodney in to kiss him, steadying him with a hand.
"We could be doing this in bed," Rodney says against his mouth, but he's smiling as he returns the kiss. "We have a very nice bed. King sized. You might remember it."
"Shhh," John murmurs, turns his head to look at their home, slings his arm around Rodney's shoulders. "Say goodbye to winter."
"'Bye, winter," Rodney mumbles, nose in the mug again, but he's warm and solid against John's side, and the robin's found a mate to chatter with companionably, and the kids are still sleeping, and all's right with the world.