writing – Page 12 – scillagrace

With the time change, morning daylight becomes precious. It’s dark by 5pm now, so I like to get up and get going early. My partner, however, stays up working late into the wee hours and sleeps in. I woke up at 7, but decided to stay in bed. Early morning brain work is often my most productive, so I just lay there and thought about my Memoirs assignment. How would I describe my late husband in detail? As I pictured him from toe to head, each part brought back associations and memories spanning the 30 years we were together. Doing this in the quiet, safe, wordless place where I sleep was a great indulgence. I didn’t feel the need to come up with verbiage or sentence structure or decide what might be better left unsaid. My brain wandered through different decades and moments without the need to assign chronology. In this floating place, I felt more connected with his entire person, without delineation. When Steve rolled over, I put a hand on his shoulder and suddenly began to weep. Why just then? Perhaps the absence of tangibility in my relationship with Jim just would not be denied at the moment I became aware of touch.

We are still one.

He sat at the edge of the bed, his naked back to me. He was working up to rising, about to stand on his unsteady, swollen, deadened feet and shuffle off to the bathroom. Something prompted me to scoot forward and wrap my legs around his waist and lay my cheek between his shoulder blades. “You will always be the love of my life,” I whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”

He did. He does.

I went for a walk on Saturday morning. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I didn’t bring my camera. The day was sunny and warm enough to be autumn. On greyer days this week, it seemed more like winter. Consequently, many of my fellow suburbanites were outside exhibiting their leisure preferences. We are an odd lot, I think. Some quirky, some staunchly mainstream seeking credence for their peculiar habits. If you have a dog or a bicycle or Spandex athletic gear, you are allowed to be out on the paths. You fit in. No one stares. If you’re wearing a mink, a wedding gown, or sitting in the lotus position on a fallen tree, you’re a little more suspect. I have a story about all three of these.

At the end of my block lives an elderly lady with a cocker spaniel. She takes him out to the sidewalk on a leash regularly. The last two times I saw her, she was wearing a midi-length fur coat about the same color as her dog. As I walked down the street, she faced me full on. When I got within about 20 feet from her, she called out, “He’ll jump on you!” I stopped. “Would you like me to cross the street?” I asked. “I don’t care what you do. If you come near him, he’ll jump on you. It doesn’t matter to me.” I crossed the street. “My, your hair is very long! It goes all the way down to your waist!” she called. “Yes, it does.” “Do you live with Scott Peterson?” “No, I live at the end of this street, at the corner.” When I am older, can I make blunt comments out of the blue at passers-by? I hope so. I like the directness. No little niceties required.

When I got to the park, I saw a bride, a photographer and a small entourage. It seems like every weekend someone’s getting their picture taken in that park. It has a nice bridge, and the fall colors are pretty. High school seniors and brides and families who send photo Christmas cards love it. This bride was picking her was across the grass with four people holding up her skirt. Her shoes were whitish-gold strappy heels adding about 5 inches to her height. Her hair was in a blonde up-do with tiara and veil. She might have been a fairy-tale princess except for the odd way she was walking…and her voice. Despite the outfit, she was a rather pedestrian pedestrian, another modern bride having her day.

I made my way toward the woods. Just outside the parking area for the pool is a bike trail and a train track. A speedy middle aged guy in a helmet wheeled in front of me up the path. When I got to the crest of the train trestle, I saw an older woman in sweatpants stooping over to part the fallen leaves with her hand. She wasn’t a biker, didn’t seem like a hiker, either. I think she was looking for mushrooms. An Old World forager. I walked past the golf course and headed into the woods. I didn’t recognize any trails, so I simply made my way across a dry stream bed and found a fallen tree. I wasn’t too far from the road, but I was surrounded by trees and leaves and moss. It was pretty quiet. I flung my coat over the trunk and sat atop it. From where I was, I could spot a paper wasp nest, woodpeckers, squirrels, and single leaves spiraling gracefully to the forest floor. I looked up and breathed a sigh. This is how I recreate. No Spandex necessary. One solitary walking man and two men and their dogs eventually strolled by, crunching their way through the underbrush. They looked at me. I looked away. One of the dog walkers went by quite close and made eye contact. I said hello. He greeted me and kept his head turned toward me as he walked away smiling. What?! I’m sitting in the woods; you got a problem with that? I suppose I can be defensive in my head. I often feel awkward socially, perceiving judgment when there’s no reason to.

Later that day, we went to the top of Lapham Peak in the Kettle Moraine park. The day had turned cloudy again, and smoke from burning leaf piles gave the atmosphere a mournful grey haze. Our species has its own way of living on the land. I find it interesting, diverse, idiosyncratic. Almost as fun as watching squirrels.