The View
On most mornings I water the plants around my porch with moisture collected in my rainwater drums. I start in the front by the big oaks. Then I move to the new salvia at the end of the house and then on to the back. It’s the turn around the corner from the end of the house to the back that always gives me pause. The pleasant sort. The vista opens up from suburban to country. The windmill comes into view flanked by a long look down the neighbor’s pasture.
It’s one of those views you drink in. Grassland, trees, hills in the distance. The rising sun to the left coming up over the park. The breeze from the south blowing up from the gulf. The big burr oak behind me with its leaves rustling in the same breeze I feel. Soft, yet strong and insistent enough to shape the tree over the years, bending it not to its will but it’s simple presence. Sure, there have been hard storms with big winds, but mostly the breeze is just there, moving along, going where winds go and the tree obliges and goes with it.
Of course, a bit of melancholy also slips in as I stop to look at the pasture. After all, it’s the same view that captivated my late wife and I as we decided to build our home here. I miss her. And like the breeze, the memories are just there and like the burr oak, I’m accommodating them. An old tree bending to the soft embrace of loss and love just as I bent to the winds of love when she was alive. And now I’m passing it along with my little water can. New life. With love and rain fallen from heaven.