Thursday, June 14, 2012
in the country, where the prayers grow like weeds along the road
it was a sunday in october when we set off on the ferry. a short jaunt from long island to connecticut across a sea of blue glass, seamless save for a few boats that cut through the currents. it was cold and you were wearing your members only jacket, my goosebumped arms tucked into it too. i told myself in that moment, remember this as a time you were happy. my mind literally formed that exact phrase.
i reminded myself the same thing that afternoon in charlotte. when we snuck off from the walking trail to explore the vacant playground. the slides and the merry-go-round and empty field. there are some times when i am so cognizant, so fully aware, of the desire to remember something, to store it up and preserve it, that it almost breaks my heart.
such a moment happened this morning. in the laundry room out the back of the house, with the late dawn sunshine pouring in through the glass door and old blinds. pablo lying in the exact place it chose to dance across the worn carpet. you came in wearing your blue collar and pants stained with dirt and something about the way the light hit your forehead made me drop the shirt i was folding and drink in the room.
remember this as a time you were happy.
i waved goodbye to you on the brick porch and went back to finish getting ready. it was then i found your note on my laptop. i went outside to check on our garden at 1. a.m., you wrote. let's build a farm one day.
i'll follow you. down the driveway. the road. the country. as we build our life with these happy mornings. remembering all the way.