Preparations for Yet Another

It seems to have happened overnight.  After days of dreary weather, the sun today gives respite from darkness and unending bone-chilling rain that makes the grass appear a vibrant green. Once it grows; it never stops.

My husband was a collector.  We have windows, if you are in need of any window of any shape and  size.  We have lawn mowers (at least I think).  Historically, he had an array of push mowers and ride-ons. Yet the shovels are not yet put away, leaning against the door, while my winter coats still hang on hooks throughout the house, just in case.  I just don't know if I have one working lawn mower. Thoughts of tackling this, just overwhelm me.  I am out of my territory. Meanwhile the grass grows at a furious rate after months of dormancy.

It has been decades since I have pushed a mower.  I am not sure how to start one.  It seems that my anxiety about another change of season and my first spring without my handy husband may have been alleviated had I planned ahead a little bit.  Yet, I need to give myself a break; after all I am carrying the load of two adults.  My schedule opens a bit this weekend.  I will walk the property checking for rocks and sticks that may catch in the mower, but not before I find at least one mower in working order and pray for dry weather.

Home

Winter clothes crowd my suit case,
I fully expected to walk along the beach
scarf wrapped
warming,
my boots sinking
deep into the sand,
but
instead,
I walked barefooted,
closing my eyes
pretending it was summer.

Whenever I visit home
I walk the beaches
where as a kid
I dug deep holes
until they pooled with water,
collected shells and sand dollars,
the expanse of ocean stretching to the
thin horizon line,
I imagined
floating out
to sea.


I am drawn to the sea.
Here I am home.

Off News

Life is overwhelming
enough,
I am off news,
but I caught glimpses
of PBS News
at a friend's house
the other night
and
learned about the bomb.

Fox News blares
while I get my car
serviced,
the more I try
to avoid listening
the more I hear-
strange thing.

This morning
I talked with a kindergartener
about chickadees and
hardwood trees
as we meandered
through the forest
with every student
and
adult
in my school
celebrating Earth Day
Arbor Day
beginning the day with
a hike.

I am off news
preferring the views of the
world
from a 6 year old perspective,
I like it that way.

Minutes

                                  This is how I chose to spend my precious moments this morning.

“You’re gonna be old in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” my oldest joked just last night. Maybe, he half joked.  My husband just reached the big 6-0 and I am not far behind. Young by today’s standards. I’m not whining, just coming to terms with the fact that time is precious, but I still spend time frivolously.

Not long ago, I was walking to St. Mary’s School early mornings and visiting my grandmother in the afternoons. She was always there waiting in the yellow apartment house with the long stretch of brick walkway shaded by the “claimed to be” oldest tree in Biddeford.  It was a chestnut that threw prickly seed pods.  

It seems not long ago, I spent days at the beach with my mother from the cool of early morning, through the hot hours and into the late afternoon when the beach was covered in shadow. We would trudge back to the car, our hair dripping and our skin tight and sandy from the sea and sand.  Not long ago, I hunched on the couch, my father and I yelling at the TV, urging the Red Sox to pull through in the ninth.  Not long ago.

Those were times of certainty.  I hadn’t a care that the minutes were being used up, I was  young with years before me.  I was certain that my grandmother would always meet me at her door with chocolate chip cookies and stories of her cross country trip or the 1964 World Fair in New York City. I was certain that my mother would always float with me in the salty Atlantic and barefooted walk the  beach that seemed to stretch on forever.  And one day, my father would surely witness the Red Sox busting through the curse that was said to withhold them from the glory of a World Series.  I was certain.

Precious minutes are not certain. They are gifts.  Spend them well.

A Return

There sure is something comforting about coming home. Threads of constancy hold the unravelling through the years of changes. Change can be a bitter pill. My grandmother's house always a pale, soothing yellow is now white. The ancient chestnut tree out front has long been choked by asphalt. Some changes can be helped.