Growing up, I lived in what we now call a single family home. Memories of running around the house, cousins and siblings in tow lurk in the corners of my brain like fading sepia photographs. I remember Amma sweeping the courtyard off the wide badam and narrow neem leaves each morning and evening. There is something precious in caring for a piece of land you own.
Well into my middle age now, I felt the pull of the land when we bought our first home together. I remember running from room to room of the huge empty house after settlement caressing the walls and soaking in the moment. As the years passed, I understood the strange serenity that came over Amma when she raked the leaves or pulled out weeds from the tiny patch at the front of the house. The longing simmered in my depths to own a home with a yard.
This past week, it happened. I sit by the window looking into my yard. I spy a couple of deer rustling in the brush behind the house. A geese family amble along genially. I step out tentatively and notice the bushes in my carefully landscaped front yard now boasts roses. The air is uncomfortably cool and I hurry back to the warmth of the interiors. I sigh and soak it all in.
A dream come true.