Taken Back

Dusk, Feb 2024 and my wife and I are sitting in the back yard of our house, near the firepit, next to the pool.  It’s pretty, the birds are beginning the peaceful, unhurried song of evening, leaving behind the frail notes of afternoon. Nearby is a desert area my wife created. 

A bird twilled once, twice, three times. I close my eyes, and imagine the bird is a Baltimore Oriole, technicolor,  buttery. It’s 1951, a Sunday morning, and my father and I are playing catch, I’m still in my Sunday school suit. 

The feeling of being alive is glorious and filled with Hope, filling the empty space where there was none. 

Back in reality the feeling lingers, fades. The world I lived in most of my life had no room for error, when something went wrong it brought something else down with it. Survival was sustained by guts and resilience, prolonged by a paucity of choice.

It’s not that way now, but the feeling remains.