Saturday, December 19, 2009
sometimes a dream is a prose poem writing itself in your heart
This time, my own children grown, I care for a neighbour's small ones (2 girls and a baby boy). We are at a sea cove where they clamber across rocks in the sun and wind. I am on guard against scrapes and falls. Late afternoon, we pack up to walk home. I carry the boy, now sleepy from a missed nap. Middle child rushes ahead down the lane, out of sight. An anguished cry! Is she hurt? I jostle forward, drowsing boy stuck to my hip with sweat and sand, heavy bag flapping. I find her crumpled on the lawn, crushed by sorrow. Beside her: the fresh cut stump of a familiar tree stands where once there was shade and leafy green. Her strangled sobs remind me that she has no vocabulary for this loss. She cannot tell me what this means. Without words, I know that the tree's body held the spirit of someone she loved. She is bereft.