The playground swing has a canvas seat and is suspended by thick metal chains. It squeaks and sings in a familiar rhythm. The warmth of my hands holding myself in place releases a memory-filled scent of old iron, rain, and rust. It is a warm, quiet night. And a breeze puffs at my hair; it exhales across my face and arms and legs. My feet are bare. I hold my breath as I swing higher and higher. And for one moment, I am flying – free and far and forever.
I am completely in the present. And yet I am every age I have ever been. In my mind and heart, I swing back and forth in time and place. And I hear myself laughing – both then and now.
It is recess. more “Reclaiming recess.” …
It was dark and lumpy and crumpled looking. At first, I thought it was a faded dry Camellia blossom that my cat, Tuppence, had brought inside. (This is a typical gift from her.) But just before I reached down to scoop it up off the bedroom floor, I hesitated for a closer look. And then I saw its little head and body – wings pulled in protectively to its sides. A bat. Small, probably young, deep brown, velvety-furred. (Also, I suspect, a gift from Tuppence.) more “The bat and the blind dog.” …
They say it’s because of the rain. Increased rain typically accounts for increased bunny populations. More rain … more food … more bunny babies. Many of us have noticed a bunny boom this summer. And with it comes the unmistakable, unforgettable, dance of happy rabbits – a dance known as the “binky” – a leaping, twisting, turning, tumbling expression of pure joy. (There’s even something called a “half binky,” involving a twisting and flicking of the head and ears only – more like a wink and a giggle, I suppose.) more “Dancing the “binky” with bunnies till dawn.” …
“You can get away with a lot more if you just don’t ask.”
This was one of the first bits of wisdom my older sister taught me when we were growing up. I don’t remember the circumstances. But I do remember the enlightenment. more “Wisdom for the ages … or the aging.” …
She was torn and battered. Gaping holes completely filigreed one of her wings, with bits missing from the other one as well. And still, she flew. more “Flying with broken wings.” …
Over long dark pants, heavy shoes, and an assortment of t-shirts, they had pulled on fluffy pink tutus. Some carried riding crops, some wore fancy hats.
They were not of any particular age group. Or economic background. Or race. Or education. What they shared in common is that they were all women. Women who have experienced cancer. They are Women Beyond Cancer, according to the name of the group in which they participate. And this day they were dancing. Outside, in the warm sun and cool breeze. Dancing with a horse named Prince. more “Dances with horses.” …
Frodo was bred to race. Frodo, however, amiably declined.
A large, grey, beautiful Thoroughbred, Frodo simply refused to conform to the life of a racehorse. He just didn’t have the heart for it. Instead, his heart was much more inclined toward building relationships. Rather than compete, he preferred to socialize. Rather than train for the opportunity to stand grandly inside a winner’s circle, he inherently walked gently around in the corners of people’s souls. more “Frodo: From racehorse to war horse.” …
She was no bigger than the nail on my little finger. A tiny bit of winged life. I found her floating on the surface of the water in the dog’s drinking bowl. She was pale and ghost like, wings spread in perfect symmetry. more ““Just living is not enough,” said the butterfly – Hans Christian Anderson” …
There is something rather poignant and oddly perfect about receiving coloring books from your older sister for your birthday. Especially when you’re both long, long past your mid-century marks. It’s as if she is saying: “I remember,” as only an older sister can do. more “Coloring books from my sister.” …
I like to believe it waits just for me. It is, after all, only a few blocks from my house, with parts of it almost hidden. It is an old brick wall of undetermined age. Cloaked beneath heavy ropes of wisteria and ivy, it is slowly falling away, clutching pieces of itself together with decaying iron bars still inset in its impotent sides, protecting nothing. more “Abandoned beauty.” …
