My wife made an aerial view of farm land out of yarn. There is a large stream and a house. I watched her, sitting on the floor in our living room, with spools of yarn, brown, green, brown-green, laying rows over and over again.
It was a colossal mess at first. I turned my head one way then another but the shapes remained illegible. Just when I'd start to parse, to sense a rhythm, she'd add a dash of checkered brown or a skein of too vibrant green and I'd become unmoored.
It made sense in the end, all framed up. It's a very pretty work.
For the last several weeks my wife has attempted transmute a dram of the puritanical joy she must feel scraping the popcorn texture off the ceiling of our new house. It feels like it's hers after she has put her hands on it.
It all seems to be destruction to me. She has a better eye for these things.
We go from room to hallway to room, leaving a wake of patchy drywall, our arms sore. I'm dog tired each weekend.
Sometimes I go into the woods and work on the trail. For me, it doesn't feel like home until it gives something back.
It will all make sense in the end.