Write to You

February 2017

Okay Vaughn, I will write to you, which means I will write to myself. You’ve been calling me and calling me–haven’t you? Or have I been calling and calling myself? To write–to look–to acknowledge. The computer Mahjong screen says NO MORE MOVES, and KQED is broadcasting Marketplace, which bores me. I’ve run out of ways to distract myself from my need to look, to acknowledge.

A spring storm is sweeping across our land. As usual, I welcome the rain. The early darkness it brings suits my desire to close down–the hum of raindrops and the rustling of branches in the wind create a kind of numbing, insulating background noise. So much more suitable to my state of mind than the bird calls of a clear day–broadcasting their jarring, terrifying optimism.

Maybe it’s not even optimism–more of a foolish determination, despite everything–fallen nests, unhatched eggs, prowling cats–to move forward into the day, into the new season of birth, into the sky.

How I resist my similar impulses…because how could that be right?

There have been a pair of hawks around. I saw one make a kill just 6 yards or so away from me. Plunged down like a dark lightening bolt and then straight up again, a struggling something–gopher I hope?–in its talons.

I think of you, and your Dad when I see those hawks. I feel like you’re communicating to me somehow.

I hope you’re saying: ‘I am near. I am free. All will be revealed.’ (That’s what Dad told me when I talked with George Anderson.)

Yes Vaughn, you are here. In my heart always and forever.

And so I sit here, writing these words–trapped in this moment that seems to go on and on.

I don’t want to complain. I must accept that this moment is as it is. I must accept my sadness and confusion. I will attempt to accept the beauty of the bird calls too, as they fly free on the next sunny day, the foolish creatures.