We have a back yard. We have a patio with a free corner for our fire pit, and enough room for scootering. We have grass -- real grass! -- that will be lush and green in the wetness of spring. We have space to run and swing and pretend. We have a back yard.
We have a garden. Or the promise of a garden. We have a romantic iron fence surrounding an empty plot of earth. We have dreams. We'll have tall rows of corn, broad leaves of squash, tangled vines of beans. We'll have bursting tomatoes and bulging peppers. We'll have work. We'll have damp earth and dripping leaves. We'll have a garden.
We have playing. We have yelling and laughing and shouting and hiding and seeking. We have tickle monsters and marauding pirates. We have caterpillars. We have feet in the air and wind through the hair; we have action. We have resting on the deck with cold drinks of ice water. We have seats next to daddy. We have playing.
We have sunsets. We have tall trees and shady ground, dappled corners and glinting light. We have roots that spread and reach. We have rose bushes and tall grasses and wooden steps perfect for taking it all in. We have squirrels that scurry over fence rows. We have clouds that scuttle overhead. We have sunsets and shade and a thousand-dozen sunrises to come.
We have home. We have life. We have breaths and smiles and restful sleeps. We have sisters and brother, friends and secrets. We have whispers on pillows and giggles in moonlight. We have heart and soul-mates. We have floors and walls and breezes through windows. We have now, and we have later. We have home.