One week ago we learned that things with a loan were promising again, but we know that "promising" doesn't build a house. We were told that tomorrow we'd know for sure, but we know "tomorrow" means next week. We watch as a new drought sets in, and the growing grass turns brown. The stakes set out by the builder have been pushed aside by the cows and wind. Meanwhile the trees bloom in full, electric green since the drought doesn't matter to them, and they've been there so long, these passing days and years are like seconds and minutes. Their roots run deep. They draw water from somewhere else.
I know we'll get the news tomorrow or Monday, or next Friday. I'm certain it will be another shoulder shrug or empty explanation. I don't know when you turn away from a place. People ask for an "update" and the answer's the same, always. We wait.