In This Moment

It has been raining, daily, for about three weeks. Paul and I feel that a little of Scotland flew home with us. The rain finally broke this weekend and Saturday morning we awakened to sunshine. The sudden dry spell coupled with the turning of the calendar page to May made us feel ambitious about spring projects.

Seeds, peas for example, that can tolerate colder soil have been planted. I stand in the garden rows and stretch tall bamboo trellises between the rows of seeds I have just put to bed, imagining my straight lines will fall, exactly, between plants. At this point the garden is a bit of a beautiful dream. The apple tree that bends over the right corner is beginning to flower while the garlic, planted in the fall as we anticipated winter, is shooting bright green leaves toward the spring sunshine. Paul and I wade into the raspberry patch, each step slowed by the grab of prickers at our jackets. We remove dead canes to make room for new and soon there is a large pile stacked beside the fence. Each of us bears long scratches across our forearms. badges the color of raspberries.

Paul begins piling mulch in the patch while I traipse up the road, Muir racing along beside me, a four foot long stick in his mouth. I watch him run between two trees, stopping to figure out how to angle his way through. I go down the steps to the basement and dig for clay pots. I examine several, decide on a few and begin hauling them up the stairs. As I walk I feel a sense of familiarity. I think about how many springs have seen us planting the garden, putting up sheep fencing, buying yet another hose. Thinking about it, I can feel the fatigue between my shoulder blades. of another seasonal transformation

Later that day we scrub our farm fingernails, change out of dusty clothes and leave for a celebration of life ceremony. Paul and I had been married only a year when Don and Dru married. They were older and had found each other with great celebration. I remember the afternoon of their wedding, walking across a field to the ceremony. The afternoon sun hot, colorful flowers waving in the lazy wind. We all laughed as our friend, Andreas, made a toast, “To Don and his trophy wife, Dru.”

We had felt giddy celebrating love, confident it would go on forever. This afternoon we dress up again, walk across a parking lot to celebrate Don’s life, trying not to think about its connection to his death. Dru sits in her chair and talks with people who stop, put a hand on her shoulder and lean down. She looks frail. When I hug her, I am careful not to squeeze too tight. I fear she will break.

In the pre-dusk light we take the dogs for a walk. Muir races ahead of us, his movements quick and sure. He leaps the stone walls as if levitating. Bronte trots up the road, nose in the air, sure there is something just around the corner. We look back for Sam, the fourteen year old, and his pace has slowed from a trot to a more sedate walk. He wanders to the edge of the stream, looks, but chooses not to crash into the water for a frigid spring swim. Stepping back onto the dirt road he looks at us and begins to turn around toward home. I call to him, bending to slap my knee to make noise so that he can hear me. He turns slowly and looks, but then continues to walk away from us.

While the work of spring is challenging, it is also familiar and, in that moment climbing stairs, my arms full of flower pots, I realized that familiarity cannot guarantee continuation.

After the noise, food and music of Don’s celebration, Dru would come home to an empty house. Her difficulty walking might mean there would be no pots full of summer flowers this year or tomatoes, the size of a small child, that they always bragged about.

Sam has never before turned around on walks. As I watch him my eyes fill up with tears. I call him and my voice is hoarse with emotion. I yell his name, almost in anger. I want him to be Sam, I want him to come back up the hill, tail high, a smile on his face. I want the truth to be different. I watch him and I can see him gathering sheep for me, tireless, effortless, powerful. I want him back but he wants to go home.

He watches me over his shoulder as he turns and I begin to run down the road. Paul hollers and asks where I am going but I can’t answer.

I catch up with Sam and he looks over at me. We begin to walk, slowly, side by side down the road toward home. I cannot make this different than it is. All I can do is be in this spring and in this moment.