On the beach tonight, I am watching them.
All four of them in their own worlds — coming together to show a rock, ask a question.
Then parting ways again, each beckoned back into the stillness
and constant motion of the lake.
Everything gets washed away here.
Petoskey stones scattered on the shoreline last summer —
are now under water.
The coral pattern makes them easier to spot when wet.
Who is it that speaks so eloquently about thresholds?
A threshold is a place where we stop the conversation
and become something new.
Maybe this is why we are so drawn to the beach?
When we need to step over a threshold:
that edge —
that becoming something new — we come to the big lake.
Here we can look out into the future,
and feel ourselves willing to be changed by it.
Willing to enter into the unknown blue.
I wake up to a soft whining at 6 am
No, I slowly remember.
Harry is gone.
I am putting Wallace down for a nap
A dog barks outside
I catch myself looking for him
anticipating the sound of his tag
as it jingles against his collar
when he follows me around the garden.
I expect to see him curled up
on the couch when I come down the stairs.
It seems so quiet now.
“Maybe the house will stay cleaner?”
I say to Jeffrey.
We both laugh.
As if Harry was messy.
only his paws on a rainy day
All of his belongings fit in a brown paper grocery bag
with room to spare.
He took everything with him
except his bottle of ear wash,
which he hated anyway.
The girls said goodbye.
I couldn’t tell who was more sad
and who was more mad
Because I did it.
I decided to find him a new home.
I made the arrangements.
I brushed his fur one last time
and kissed his black nose.
And now it is quiet
But I keep hearing Harry.
Last spring I planted
a dozen perennials
along our fence.
The fence came down
to be painted;
A baby was born
overlooking the garden;
Winter came and went.
The fence remains down —
it has yet to be painted.
Our growing boy fills my arms —
I have not weeded.
Spring rains have called the earth to grow.
My flowers are blooming.
They give me the gift of their beauty —
and all I have to do is walk outside
He is reaching —
to bring the world close.
Arms out. Open.
The air was heavy
We felt it coming —
. . .
Dancing in the raindrops
Going to sleep
with their windows open;
to the sound.
. . .
I go into their rooms later
to close the windows
and find them sprawled out,
dreaming of rain.
I am watching him sit in the spring woods.
Light, filtering through newly budding trees.
Light so brilliant. So fleeting.
Tiny blooms cover the forest floor. Violets. Spring beauties. Trillium. Trout lillies. Where do they come from? Where do they go?
A carpet of vibrant green has emerged from brown earth. Green today. Brown again tomorrow.
This light, these flowers, the green — it will all fade away when the leaves fill out. The woods will transform into a place of dark and deep.
But, today, we have this.
Have you read “The Story of the Root Children” by Sibylle von Olfers? It is a beautiful classic children’s book. Amabel says Wallace looks like a “root child” in his brown wooly suit.
And today he did indeed look like he crawled out of the pages of that story land.