Prairie Song — A Day from My Heart’s Almanac

Dawn breaks like a hymn over the hills. The rooster crows and the golden light creeps through gingham curtains. Laura’s already up, kneading dough with gentle hands, flour dusting her apron like snow. Michael’s chopping wood out back—his laughter rising with the crack of the axe, telling a story to the youngest as the dog chases chickens in joyful chaos. The kettle whistles. Glen’s picking out soft chords on his guitar by the window— his voice warm as sun on old barnwood: "Like a rhinestone cowboy..." It drifts into the air, and Kenny joins in from the porch, mug in hand, singing about the gambler who knew when to hold ‘em. Sigrid rides in just before breakfast, reins in one hand, a bundle of wildflowers in the other. She smells of leather and eucalyptus. Her stories are of winding trails and starry camps, as we sit around a table built by calloused hands and mended with love more than nails. The day is honest work—fences to mend, songs to sing, letters to write in looping script, children to teach the old ways: how to read the clouds, how to listen with your heart, how to dance when no one’s watching but the wind. Evening comes with a fire and a fiddle. Stars come early out here— Glen hums lullabies, Laura knits beside the fire, Michael tells tales of strength and grace, Kenny sings one more song about roads not taken, and Sigrid reads poems from a book that smells of time. We are not rich, but we are full. We are not many, but we are enough. And in this house of melody and memory, I finally belong.

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