(no subject)

He could wear gloves but he never does, and he's up to his wrists in cool, damp soil, well-tilled and rich. It's early days yet, but there are things that can go into the ground early, and he has a lot of work to do. The part that will be for the vegetables is blocked off. He has a place for a cherry tree, something that'll bloom tiny explosions of delicate pink.

Even on the island it wasn't quite like this. His land. His and Neil's, in a way that nothing on the island really belonged to anyone. It's a fierce kind of thing, he thinks, rocking back on his heels. What it means to have something like this. What it does to your life. He's always rented. Always moved around. Never put down roots anywhere, never.

So it's long past time.