“The road is gently marked by a hand painted sign, & then the driveway off the driveway, not at all. It’s been a while, and an old farmhouse has given way to a mansion, off in the distance. I know enough not to go in that direction. I turn in, cranking the steering wheel of my huge truck hard, absorbing all the while, the crunch of a gravel designed to please, and seduce. This is how the other half lives. Or, what is left of the other half, after one half of the half, has passed. My friend’s husband is gone. I admit, I did not move back into town in time, to know him. I advance, in my vehicular behemoth, with care not to rush the experience. Besides, there is a dog in the road. According to his size, he should be terrified of my metal, but instead, he trots up and disappears, somewhere below my line of vision. Damn, I think, and ease to a stop. Where is this little man? It’s a hot day, late summer, sort of lazy anyway. No harm done, as I rest in the space cut between forest and forest, until he pops out, predictably, below the driver’s side window. “Well, hello!” I say. His stumpy spaniel tail is thropping side to side, one eye seems melded shut. Watching him carefully, I move inch by inch, to an acceptable momentum, and then, outgun him, taking the rounded corners with a view of his tiny body, still positioned in my rear view. He’s heading back home, I’m sure. But, no, he’s here again as I swing open my heavy Chevy door, jogging up to the resident Burmese mountain dog, as if reuniting with a familiar friend. I figure they must both belong to my friend - face it, I’m a bit behind on her news. I’m still operating about 30 years behind, but no one said moving back to town would be easy. It’s also difficult to find the front door to the expansive house. I’ve got too many options. They all look viable, which makes it all the more confusing. On the southeast side, I see a tiny figure, in what looks to be the kitchen and knock on the glass of the French door, then the clapboard. I feel foolish. So I step back, defeated, but not giving up. I examine the door ten feet to the west. It doesn’t look used. Then I remember to look for the dogs. Where have they run to? On the north side of the house, I pursue a new route, hearing the tinkling of music from an iPhone, and see Cynthia on an outdoor porch couch, banging a cigarette out of the pack. Thank god, I think. I’m loving this reconnection with my past, which is telling me so much about who we were all along, and it’s reassuring. Somewhat impaired Cocker spaniel, he’s first to the door, wanting in. Cynthia obliges, and as I ease myself into the house on that wave, I feel relief wash over me. Burmese follows, cow-towed by Cocker, who has since made great strides towards the food bowl. She’s at the stove, cooking, & turns to me, with her lovely smile. She’s explaining the arc of her day, so far. “So I always think, if they dropped the bomb, where would I most NOT want to be in my final moments?”. For her, the answer is obvious: not in the waiting room of her car’s dealership. Yes, I am here to talk about leveling her patio, and trimming her boxwoods, but I like to deal with things chronologically & I have to admit, she has a point. She looks at Cocker, nonplussed. “Where did he come from?” she says, without a hint of annoyance. Right then and there, I remember why I love her so much. Her calm acceptance of what is happening that may not be part of the program, stuns me. As if, it was all meant to be. And as we wander the garden, looking at shrubs and perennials, and stones she’s implanted with her own muscle, her focus is clear. “No, I don’t want to hire a mason. You can do it better”. We look down. I tell her to measure the length of the problem, and email it to me. It suddenly seems infinitely solvable, thanks to her sense of accomplishment, and mastery, cultivated over decades of deprivation. As I ready to leave, she ushers both Burmese and Cocker into the back seat of her” Audi. “He followed me from about a half a mile back”, I remind her. “I know” she says, reassuring me, as she generously sets about to remove him to the aforementioned mansion. No one recognizes his tag-less collar, but it must be this. In the calm of my cab, as my motor turns over, I watch her peel out, as a dragonfly as big as my fist materializes close to my nose. Okay, I think. You or the Cocker, it’s all a matter of how far you’ll fly, to shock us with your bold, unexpected entry. With your informal noblesse oblige. I guess we need it. I guess we’ll thank you, when after you’re long gone, and we’re gone, all wing matter turns to dust.”
