In the middle of a field stands an old farm house with an attached barn.
Nobody lives there,
It use to belong to his grand parents, who had farmers manage it, we bought it many years ago.
It needs a great deal of work, the potential is vast.
It allows one to toy with many ideas that mainly start with,
"What if…"
The slate roof has been restored.
The foundation is solid.
The massive beams sturdy.
The kitchen large with an open fireplace.
French Husband remembers the farmers who use to work and live there. They would bring his Grandmother vegetables, eggs and milk.
Whenever we go to Rennes we visit "the farm".
As soon as we are there I sense him walking back to his childhood, I can see he sees it as it use to be.
He loves the land.
He imagines landing his plane in the field.
At times I think he thinks of living there.
I remind him that Provence is blue.
He reminds me that Bretagne is green.
Then I let him go back to his childhood.
The farmhouse is empty but to French Husband it is alive.
I think the little French Boy in him lives there.
Though he grew up in a city.
And though I grew up on a farm… this is not the farm of my childhood. I do not see it as he sees it.
French Husband talks about the massive wooden farm table that use to be in the center of the kitchen, the copper pans that hung from the mantle, the creamy milk that was offered to him when he would come to visit. He said, "The memories are so vivid, it feels their spirit is still here."
… with that I imagined the farmer's wife wiping her hands on her arpon, the farmer moving the table back into the corner, and while they clapped their hands to a magical tune, I grabbed the hands of the little boy who is now my husband and danced.
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