One day, a predictable rhyme
falling into neatly metered stanzas.
The next, irregular starts and stops.
Awkward transitions of one verse into another,
the meaning obscure and hard to ferret out.
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For centuries, he sat atop the mountain. The world stretched before him—the winding river, the endless sky, the gentle whisper of the wind. He was strong, jagged, unmoving. A piece of the earth itself.
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“Once upon a time.” I began and Stella snuggled closer beneath the leopard print throw. “There was a star high up in the sky.” I paused for dramatic effect. “A star named Stella.”
“No,” said Stella, leaning forward and peering up at me, bronze curls dangling. Her expression much too serious for a three-year-old. “A printh-thess.”
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Most mornings, I go onto the porch to sit and sip my coffee and listen to the birds. It’s my way of easing into the day, like warming up the engine of a car before you drive it. From where I sit, I have a clear view of the yard, the garden, and the pond beyond. There are times when the morning starts out clear, then a fog drifts in, the scene before me obscured by a cloudy haze in a matter of moments. That’s sort of how I felt as I wrote the last chapter of the novel I’ve been working on for ages. Things were a bit murky.
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Lately, I’ve been thinking about the ways in which Daddy left his mark on me. From as far back as I can remember, people have said I look like him. But our resemblance has to do with more than genetics.
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Standing by Daddy’s hospital bedside, I watched him slip quietly away. All the while I had the overwhelming sense that his life wasn’t ending. Rather, it was beginning somewhere new.
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