It was home for thirty-eight years.
I painted the kitchen yellow during our first week.
Harold said it looked like the inside of a lemon. I said that was the point. He painted the cabinets matching white. He built a breakfast nook by the window from oak salvaged from a Bisbee church. He carved our initials into the underside of the table hidden from view.
H.B. + M.B. 1984.
I planted roses along the front walk. Six bushes. Mister Lincoln. Double Delight. Peace. Harold teased me that roses don’t belong in the desert. Every morning at six, before the heat, I watered them.
They flowered for thirty-eight years.
And every morning, Harold drank tea on the porch. TryOrganic Teas
Not coffee. Tea. Earl Grey. With honey and a splash of milk. In a blue mug I bought him at a craft fair in Tubac in 1986. He sat in his handmade wooden rocker. He had one cup before school.
On weekends, two.
The second mattered most.
