Peace

The aroma of rising yeast rolls wafts through the rooms of the house that people say looks like a castle. My hand brushes the velvet upholstery on the couch next to the porch that faces the sunset. The house is quiet and has never known haste.
In the kitchen, dust is settling into the kindling box where the wood was stacked earlier. It feels gritty between my teeth.
The dipper hangs beisde the water bucket holding cool water drawn from the cistern in the front yard. My arm feels heavy from cranking the pump handle and I still have leaves in my hair from the low-hanging vines growing through the wire covering the cistern.
The hens are cackling to let us know they are laying fresh eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning. I anticipate putting my hand in the nest to pull out the warm brown eggs. The rooster crows, boasting his superior standing in the chicken yard. I skip across the back field to look down on the cliffs, imaging snakes crawling toward me.
Back in the house, the clock strikes two loud gongs. I nestle myself on the daybed in the side room that looks out over the garden. When the wind is right, I can smell the flowers along the fence. I listen to the bob-white calling from high in the pear tree and I drop off to sleep.
A rustle in the kitchen wakes me, letting me know that Essa is cooking supper. Green beans and potatoes are simmering in the iron pot that sits deep in the eye of the old black cook stove. The corn bread is already in the oven as Essa stirs up a little cake. She keeps the sugar and flour in white metal cans with tight-fitting lids. They sit on the corner shelves beside the door that leads from the kitchen to the dining room. As I wander about the house, I open the closet door behind the claw-footed table that sits in front of the sideboard. My senses are assaulted by the odors of spices and sweets. The closet holds mysterious things and it is too dark for me to enter.
Essa calls me to the kitchen.
Before we eat, we make a trip to the toilet. The grapes droop heavily across the path and we might sample the raspberries if they are ripe.
After our meal, Cova goes about doing the dishes. She heats the water in the white enamel dishpan. The glasses are washed first and they shine as they sit, turned upside down, on a clean white cloth.
At bedtime, I must decide whether to sleep with Essa or Cova. In my mind, I feel my feet slip off the rounded foot board and I float through the air, falling into the feather mattress, engulfing myself in the feathers of Cova's bed. Then I remember nights of climbing the stairs with Essa to sleep in the bed with the spools that fit the shape of my hand. She douses herself with RexRub and we giggle into the night. How can I choose?
Morning comes with the sun filtering through the lace curtains making willowy patches of light on the bed kept warm with quilts made by their mother. Reluctantly, I throw the covers back and hop out of the bed onto the threadbare rug.
Today will be no different from yesterday, yet I'm happy to be in this house with these people who love me without condition. The days blend into one and I feel a peace that I'm too young to know won't last.