Amidst the rustle of autumn leaves and a coyote's cry, fingers interlaced, we listen to our breath, the wind. Both linger in the space between us, sifting through a tiresome cloud of flies.
As we walk along the river, I tell about my day.
I remember I saw a man waving and smiling at the traffic from a street-corner on my morning commute. I wanted to cry, the way his smile was so wide, and how people weren't waving back. It made me think of God. I could see him doing that sort of thing were he here and shaped like a person--wanting to make people smile on their way to work on a frosty September morning.
I say I miss my students--the ones I used to teach, but don't teach anymore because we're moving away. If only I could be there, leaning over their shoulders during class, whispering, and reminding them to love the words. To love reading them, writing them, bouncing them around in their heads.
When a boy walks by us with a long stick, I remember playing softball as a child. Short-stop. I loved my spot between second and third, a territory all my own. Leaning forward with my gloved hand raised, I would shift my weight from left foot to right foot and back, waiting to crush someone's homerun dream. It seems like a long time ago, now.
When I finish talking, and decide to be quiet, it's dusk. My toes are tingling and the light is such that the earth blends into the sky. So, after stopping to watch a man run to the top of a big hill, we smile at each other and drive back home.
Image "Autumn Evening" by Richard Wade (www.richardwade-art.com)
