Wednesday, September 21, 2011
And then that inevitable sadness sifts down, a mist from a cloudbank that lowers and lowers until it exists inside me, part of every cell. Becomes tissue and marrow.
I saw a bed of pink petunias this morning on the way to work: simple and not trying to impress any living soul. Made a note to plant pink petunias when the planet spins around again to this side of Spring. Right now we're down to one last day of summer: glad to be done with this season, sad for summer's waning.
So many gone so recently, and will I see them again? No. So many kinds of death, and the absence of those we love takes its time filling its space. And who am I to exhibit sadness? The most basic level of gratitude is that of taking the next breath, and the next. No severed spinal cords, no wasted body. Not here. No slow sinking in a bathtub, the water rising above the final gasp.
My current obsession with hydrangeas will go on until every purple, blue & burgundy has faded from every drooped stem. For this moment -- right now -- they contain everything I need.