We all headed out into the dark night, the moon a glowing white ball, the stars spectacular, the rows and rows of flowers they use in their floral business swaying in the slight wind, the scents of a galaxy of roses wafting by.

“Good night,” I called out as I headed to what we call the carriage house. I do not need to see them naked.

“Good night, dear,” my mom said.

“You’re a bit ancient in your thinking,” Aunt Camellia called out. “There’s nothing wrong with getting close to your soul while meditating in the raw. Rawness brings truth.”

“Don’t bother her,” Aunt Iris said. She always defends me and respects my decisions, even if she does it in a cranky way. “If she doesn’t want to meditate, she doesn’t have to. A woman should never do something she doesn’t want to do. She should say no, then drink a beer.”

“It would help,” my mother whispered, but I heard it. “She’s wound too tight.”

“I heard that, Mom,” I called out.

“Sorry, dear. But it would.”

I knew what she was talking about. I didn’t think naked meditation would help at all.

* * *

I said hello to all my animals on the way home: two alpacas—Virginia Alpaca and Alpaca Joe; two black-and-white goats—Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat; two horses—Shakespeare and Jane Austen; four cats—Mars, Jupiter, Venus, and Ghost; and five lambs—Padre, Momma, Jay Rae, Raptor, and The TMan.

Sundance, my seventeen-year-old dog, who has gone through several nervous breakdowns with me, ran right toward me on his three legs as soon as I left Rose Bloom Cottage and stood up on his hind legs for a hug. That golden, furry mutt is my life. I swear he’s a human covered in fur.

His fellow dog brothers, Butch and Cassidy, wiggled their tails while I pet them and gave them a hug. They are both shades of brown. I pulled on my farm boots and gloves and a light jacket; checked and replenished all of the animals’ food and water; dumped more hay out for the horses; told the goats not to escape again, as they did regularly; promised Jane Austen I’d ride her again soon; and talked with the sheep about how cute they are.

About an hour and a half later, I headed home to the carriage house, my home. The cats and dogs came with me. It was almost time for bed, and everyone would soon be snoring in my bedroom—yes, the dogs and cats mixed together. It is what it is.

I love my animals. They have kept me relatively sane for years.

* * *

I went to bed that night and pulled a book off the top of my stack. Then I pulled out the third book down. That was a bad move. The whole stack fell over. I sighed. Book hoarding.

I tried to read but thought this: I had not seen Marco in six days and twelve hours.

It bangs my heart up to see that man, as I know I can never be with him, for the worst reason, but I still want that glimpse. I want to see the smile or hear the laugh.