Me Being In the Country

I meander my way through the hills, noting the pretty violets. Their daintiness delights me, so I sit, trying not to crush any. An impossible task. While I am down here, I notice the morels. My hand reaches past them to feel the bumpiness of the tree moss. The sun has greeted me; I see a diagonal sun stream lighting the meadow. I lean against the trunk of the oak and study the prettiness of this valley. Since I was a child I always wanted to be a grandma and live in the country. I never wanted to cook or bake, so I don’t. I sit here, loving the sound of crickets. Was that a frog? I get up to wander to the pond. There are minnows there. I can practically feel the cool water on my fingers; I stare at my age spots. When did I grow my grandmother’s hands? I wonder if I still have my freckles. The ones grandpa used to tease me about when I was nine. I will look later.