Moving on

Two days after Christmas, the last of the visitors packed up their Subaru and drove home to Asheville.  They went back to their other life, the adult life, with jobs and children of their own to look after, with food to cook and laundry to fold.

At our house, the clock ticked. I swept the kitchen floor and watered the houseplants. The dog came by for a petting now and again. 

Every morning for the rest of the week, my husband brought me a cup of coffee in bed while I enjoyed my new crossword puzzlebook for several hours.

On a warm sunny afternoon not long after, I pulled on my raingear and boots.  I tromped out to the compost pile with my garden cart and a large black bucket.  I pulled one side off the bin and scooped the rich dark compost into the bucket, spreading a thick layer over my beds of spring wildflowers --bloodroot, mayapples, Jack in the pulpit.

As I dug down near the bottom of the pile, I found a pair of soft white oblong eggs, like tiny satin ballerina slippers.  They were empty, each one with an invisible slit across the top.  At the other end of the pile, I found four more, soft and white, each with a slit.  As I picked them up, my gloves caked them with dirt.  In the dry winter air, they quickly hardened.  

I never see snakes in my garden but this area of my yard is good habitat with natural leaf litter, a low lying brush pile, and a quartet of 4x4 compost piles.  I welcome any creature who will prey on the voles as they attack my garden at night, eating the roots of my hostas, aspidistras and phlox.

I thought of that mother snake, laying her eggs in early spring beneath the radiating warmth of the compost pile.  She left them there and moved on, hoping for the best.

I'm hoping for the best for them too.