Roads, Mills, Laps

A Warm Afternoon.

Upon returning home tonight, we opened up our French doors. The orange light of a fading afternoon sun made its way in quickly–filling the dark pockets of all corners in the living room and casting new shadows on the yellow, dusty walls. A slight, warm breeze followed the light and lifted some stagnant papers on the dining room table, upsetting them and rearranging them into a new, fresh order. Tippet trotted out onto the deck and lifted his nose high up in the air taking in deep breaths while snorting a few times; he smelled something.

Spring, that unannounced visitor, had arrived. We sat down on the grass and I put my hands on my knees; Tippet laid on his haunches next to me watching the robins drop down jerkily from tree limbs on their eternal hunt to peck worms and grubs from the newly thawed ground. Josie was long gone, having made a beeline for the swings as soon as we got home. There’s no doubt she’s growing up. Other friends, other things, other distractions call her–leaving just my dog to lay at my feet and take in the change of season and the robins.

As children grow, they begin to leave us. They hold our hands at first–longingly and idealistically looking up into our eyes for approval and happiness–smiling, laughing, embracing. Then they begin to let go. Their eyes move away and they slowly release their grip from us. The world calls! The parent’s hands tremble as they anticipate the inevitable. Hands release, then fingers, lastly, fingertips. The children turn and run, leaving us to swipe at the air and beckon for their presence again. Eyes mist up as we peer behind our tears, catching their fleeting shadows and a few strands of their wayward, loosed hair as they disappear behind the corner of the house on their hunt for other things and other people to make them happy. But they will return some day when the seasons change. Their winter turns to spring; our spring turns to winter. As we age, it is them gripping our hands–it is them keeping us warm during our cold winter–it is them wiping our mouth and helping us stand up.

As we fade, they grasp. As we disappear, they swipe. Tippet remained with me, stood up, shook himself and ran down to the fence, flushing a robin back up into the pine tree. He then turned back, looked at me and rolled onto his belly. His paws shot straight up and for a moment, he balanced himself perfectly on his back and looked up longingly into the sky at the puffs for clouds. The wind picked back up again; change is in the air.

The seasons are again on the move. Nothing is forever. Do me a favor: Take hold of your loved one’s hands. Don’t be afraid to tell them that you love them. Know that time and the damned, inevitable change of our seasons will pull our hands apart. Hands, then fingers, then fingertips, then shadows and loosed hair.

Then goodbye.