A woman, with an awkward gait that makes me think every step she takes is wrought with pain, carries a long rectangular canvas bag across the grass. She stops when she gets to the edge, wrestles a contraption our of the bag, and transforms it into a chair which she turns away from the park
I move my morning basket from beside the wing chair in the living room where I have watched the sky in all her splendour declare the glory every morning, to the den. Now, and through the dark months ahead, I’ll greet the day there, on the leather sofa under a Sherpa blanket. Cozy. In solitude
Gerry and I took a short trip this weekend and some of the gifts were conversation en route, hope resurrected, and releasing the weight of “is this all there is?”. I’ve been wrestling with depression—there, I’ve written it. I spoke it aloud a few days ago and now I’ve written it so it’s official. I’ve been in
The sun shone a few days ago. It was noteworthy because it’s been gray so we packed up our cameras, grabbed some coffee, and went for a drive. It was glorious. We talked, looked, and didn’t click the shutters on our cameras once. No matter. The sunlight did what it does so well. It revived
Autumn’s finest has passed and it’s stick season now. There will be no more afternoon drives to capture images like this one until next year. We turn our clocks back and find ourselves in the dark. I think about putting up the lighted birch trees that take the place of Christmas trees around here. It
It’s been an unexpected whirlwind week. Yesterday afternoon, I sat in my wing chair, reading and highlighting, while beet pickles processed in the canner. Content, I looked over at my open kitchen with its tidy counters and big blue Ball canner boiling on the stove. We picked the last of the beets the day prior
“What’s that noise?” Even without my hearing aids the loud, low hum distracts me from our noontime chess game. I left them off this morning because I had an appointment with the optometrist. Concentrating on changes to one sense at a time seemed a good idea. Gerry rises from his chair, looks out the window,
I stand on the sidewalk listening to the scrape of a crisp golden leaf skating across the driveway in the wind, feeling both delighted and dismayed. I wouldn’t have heard the sound a few days ago. My sixty-year-old memory had forgotten the song of fallen autumn leaves whirling in the wind. A few weeks ago,
In late-August the leaves on the trees in my neighborhood started to show the first signs of turning color. It was easy to miss the subtle change, and I did for many years. Now I’m in the autumn of my life and sense a kinship in the shift. The intensity of summer and the almost