Thursday, January 15, 2009

174. LEARNING TO LIVE WITH YOUR CHILDREN

LEARNING TO LIVE
WITH YOUR CHILDREN
(an old afternoon)
You are experiencing life. You are walking the
three o'clock streets hand-in-hand with your child who
is coming from school. You are as wide-eyed as he is
as you scan the local horizon to notice things you
would have missed before - how the broad trees, bare in
Winter, droop across the street; how the white bark peels
and drops with the leaves, how the noise underfoot can
settle your mind. He points out the cars and seems to know
the names of different models. Whereas to you it's all a blur,
there's a rather fine distinction to be made. He is here, learning.
Winter sets in, with its late daylight early dusk.
-
There is so much expectation, as you pass and notice
neighbors' houses: the light left on in a window, the indoor
barking of a left-alone dog.. The postman, who nods, is
finishing another round. Is he as familiar with all this as
you are becoming? You wonder, but do not deign to ask.
Behind you, everyday, the rumble of that same, slow freight
train goes by. Where before you would not have noticed,
now you count and check the cars - Chessie, Western, B&O.
Distant names such as those certainly foreshorten still
another horizon. Moon travel should be as easy, you think,
as you notice the half-moon at bay, a'lit in the distant,
daytime sky. Is it rising, or falling, that moon? You wonder,
and make a note to check on it later in the night. For now,
it's just there. Such a wonderful fragment, you leave it be.
-
This is a certain, rich life - the vast, old white home on the
large corner lot; the twisting garage, with doors that no
longer fit closed; the debris, as an outdoor pantry, of a
recently-ended Fall and all of its supplies. The smell,
deep within the air, of wood-burning fires. The late blue
deepens. It is all approaching an evening in mid-December.

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