August 18, 2024 - “There is always a moment”

There is always a moment, when you are walking, where you realize you are walking. You catch a reflection in a window and acknowledge that you are a human moving your legs to get somewhere else, and now, you don’t know where you’re going, really, just know you’d like to see the water and some of those small wooden houses on the way.

You pass the children’s museum, the nature center, places the boys went growing up, and suddenly you are thinking there is so much more to see here, that maybe time and space are not your enemy, and you don’t always have to be doing something just because you don’t know what you’re doing. 

The pond is a shallow marsh at this hour.

You watch the glass water sitting between reeds, low reaching branches brushing against the surface sending slow ripples out in small rings, and it makes it look like it is raining, very gently, only in one spot, and the sound, too is something you want to give into, a chorus of cicadas, or crickets, something that sings, and you stand still, stay with the reeds and the water and let cars fly past you, wondering if you are seeing something they’re not, if something specific is keeping you here, back to the road, eyes towards the water, and you wish there was somewhere to sit, or lie down for a while, wanting to curl yourself up inside the tall grass.

You see Patty’s porch light flicker on, sensing the setting sun. You hear her screen door swing open a few moments later. You know when you turn you will see her sitting in her favorite chair, watching the woods, and the water, and wondering where summer was off too so soon. She’ll wave you over and tell you to sit. She’ll give you a beer and say, nothing like last year, is it?