A broken tulip

Home is many things.

The light was devastating this morning. Fog hung low over the land and caught the rising sun. It swirled around the haybales, climbed the trees, and blanketed the fields in blinding, yet diffused, brilliance. Everyday things traded their colours for mystery. The line of white hydrangeas I pass daily glowed out of the fog. I thought, “This is the kind of lighting they use when they show heaven, but aren’t sure what it looks like.” On the farm, spider webs caught on every possible bit of grass, of fencing, burned with sunrise fire.

The heavenly fog gave way to brutal heat. The farmer’s daughter says it’s 40 degrees. I think about how people have always complained about the weather. Degrees only made it more sophisticated. Canada has an obsession with weather reports.

The Punjabi men picking alongside me offer “ice water” from their cooler. It’s really on the cool side of lukewarm, but I gratefully accept.

One of the Mexicans comes over, to see how we’re getting along. I say it’s hot. I fling out both my arms. They are running sweat until the sun dances up and down them, gleaming back at me. The Mexican says I should be used to it because it’s like my home in Africa. His grin flashes gold teeth and we laugh.

Yes, I say. It’s like home.

Image by: Barton S. Hays