Evening

I pull into the driveway several hours before my normal time, right on the borderline between late afternoon and evening. I feel a twinge of disappointment when I see I am the first one home. I had been looking forward to his astonishment that I was home so early, to telling him that I had gone to see the baby geese, been greeted by the neighbor's dog, had found a lilac bush--the dark variety that I find so stunning.

I climb out of the car. The air is still and warm with only a touch of evening's cool. I put on my jacket, more for the convenience of not carrying it. I am hesitant to go into the house. I dread being assaulted by all the undone housework. The air outside is gentle and alive with birdsong. I detect the delicate scent of lilac. I give in to the enticement, avoiding the front door and venturing around back.

The lilac bushes are heavy with blossom and scent. They beckon, and I answer. Soon I hear the happy humming of a bumble bee. I spot him quickly, buried in purple. I imagine what it might feel like for that bee, walking on the velvety softness of the petals. I test the flowers' fullness and weight in my hand and decide it might be nice to be a bee, if only for a little while.

The cats, thrilled by the novelty of me being in their outside world, have all surrounded me, shadowing me in my perusal of the yard. I walk to the edge of the property where the berry bushes will soon grow so thick it will be impossible to pass. However, Spring is still so new that I am able to cross the barrier with little trouble. I see a large pine tree with new growth on its branches, displaying a lighter shade of green. It is so inviting that I cannot resist the urge to make my way over and feel the new needles in my hand. They are so soft and pliable and I am enchanted.

The ground crackles beneath my feet as I shift weight. Several years--decades--of Autumn leaves carpet the ground, making it soft and spongy. With every step I unearth a dead branch, usually popping up several feet away as I make my way. My faithful feline companion is following, many times startled by the branches suddenly jumping up near him. I find the old remnants of the long abandoned barbed wire fence. The trees have taken it over, swallowing up the rusted barbs. I continue following the property edge down the hill. I approach the clearing where the trees all reach their branches out east towards the morning sun. They are all misshapen here--lopsided, leaning downhill. I think this spot might have had the ability to frighten me in my younger years. Now it amuses me.

I step out into the clearing--a mini meadow. This is the spot of our watermelon growing experiment: the experiment that yielded one single golf ball sized melon, perfectly ripened just in time for the end of the short, northeastern growing season. The leggy raspberry bushes here in this clearing are already a tangle. I stand and admire the birch trees at the bottom of the hill where the property meets the road. Their round leaves are still small and tender, catching the early evening light and breeze. I glance back up the hill towards the mini grove, spread out and straddling the line between our land and the neighbor's. A thundering in the grass, a black blur, and suddenly a feline shape is clinging to one of the tree trunks like a bear cub, frisky and playful. I laugh, delighted at the display of kittenish charm.

I turn to make my way back to the house. I am a little apprehensive at the steepness of the return path, but am energized by the adventure. I soon find a dead branch sticking straight out of the soft earth, as if it were placed there for me. I pull it out easily. It is straight and still strong, shoulder height. The bark crumbles beneath my fingers, but the wood itself is unyielding. I test it, feeling a little silly. It is a good walking stick. I ascend the hill, accompanied by my band of feline adventurers.

I arrive home. The bumble bee is gone. The birds are calling to each other a hasty good night. I sit on the front stoop in the growing darkness, listening to the evening, as I await his arrival home . . . .

Peace
C