Everything is coming up circles, these days.
Hurtling toward Huntingdon late last week, late into the night, our headlights found roadside bushes, saw the gentle slope of grassy fields, the panels of weathered houses, too late for any lights to be on. The moon over the ridge, Rt. 22, the smell of the river in that familiar parking lot at 3 am under sky and stars. The train rolled through our dreams all night. We were going to a good man’s funeral.
It is good to be be sad together, Roy said, and he was right. And I realized how lucky we are to be sad together, to hold each other close in the sunshine, lakeside, skipping stones and drinking wine from styrofoam. In all of it– the floor sleeping, the death-metal construction zones, the fog and the sunrise, the smoke from the campfire and the cigarettes in the bar with the jukebox that took all our money and the pooltable glowing old and green in the back, our clothes and hair dirty and smelling of these places and of each other, the wriggling Dinah dog, the country roads and our families who live off of them, a scientific cactus– we are people for whom life is quite beautiful.
There are others to thank for this– to the one who, without question, let us take her green car from the Land of Enchantment to drive many hours here and there, west then east; to the one who stayed up waiting for us with cookies and pizzas, who let us sleep on his floors while he slept elsewhere; to the one who swooped in to watch Olive, songs in his mouth and on his bicycle; to the ones who let us turn off the highways to stay awhile, feeding us sandwiches and seltzer water, letting us play mandolins and yard games; to the ones who met us back at home, bringing tacos and hugs, staying until bedtime.
And, finally, to the one who embodies the strength and warmth of his father– who is a testament to the goodness of people, whose mustache and glasses and wryness and love are a continuation of the ones who came before.
With love for you,