We went back to where we began.
The small town we started in when we first got married.
We drove around gravel roads nestled in the foothills, remembering old running trails and walks with our first baby.
The air was thick with nostalgia, and it was sweet.
And then we drove past this:
Would you have had to investigate this? Would it be compelling to you? "Are you serious?" Bill asks, and then decides to humor me and pull over. "I'm not sure this is public property," he cautions. "I intend to find out," I tell him without looking back.
This structure is a dovecote. It is designed to house pigeons or doves. If you look at the top, you can see the windows they fly in and out of. I know this because I opened the door and climbed the ladder that led through the ceiling. Landon needed to check it out, too.
|Bill was tasked with keeping watch over the less intrepid Micah.|
The garden had a plaque that explained the particulars and invited us to stay and enjoy the peace and beauty that a family had created to honor and remember their peaceful son.
It was beautiful. Unexpected. Poignant.
Across from the garden bench was this little gem:
|This begs to be part of a novel|
For a few minutes, Ordinary slipped behind the tree and we glimpsed a bit of the strange and wonderful. Why not an empty phone booth in the middle of the woods? Why not a Medieval-styled dovecote honoring a beloved? Why not a little plot of whimsy and beauty tucked away and unexpected?
serendipity 1. the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this