“It saturated the thirsty soil and refilled the rivers. It dripped off the leaves & petals of our delicate flowers, newly opened, wetting our shirts as we leaned in, to smell. It made walking up the hill a soggy operation, field grass clinging to dry jeans, each step accompanied by a squishing sound, as our rubberized boots skipped a beat, faltering over the deeper pools of run-off. No one could fault the rain. We’d yearned for it, prayed for it, scanned the peaks for the next huge set of marching thunder clouds, without much to say, besides “we asked for this”. Anything left as dry, was no longer alone. The water from the sky, the great unifier, was at work, perhaps so we could rest in its long, erratic pauses of falling, for what must go up, must complete its coming down. Didn’t we know that, sleeping on until woken by its hard, pounding arrival on our roof metal, our skylights and our uncovered porches. Didn’t our dreams merge into the heavy reassurance that there are things beyond are control, uninterrupted as, life does go on, with, or without us. A lesson, a fulfillment, a deluge meant to reach our parched earth. Yes, I lay in the semi-darkness, not at all surprised, as the sun lightened a massive darkness, meant not only for me, but for you too. Reaching for a glass of juice at my bedside, grappling simultaneously for a phone, to tell me what time it could possibly be. Then, I was driving again, pilloried by doubts that seemed a thousand years old. Why are the roads of life so familiar, and yet so foreign, day in, day out. Heading to Rutland, passing signs for the police academy, the mummified training school, the suburban homes selling “campwood” & markers pointed onto dubious forest roads. So much wilderness, amidst so much detritus, what passes for modern civilization. what passes for love. Hungry, but seeing no place with food. I feel the sobriety of too much. I feel the longing for one empty park with an ancient tree, to cling to. But some days, there is just too much water over the dam, too much of nothing, rushing by. My errand to buy a picnic table for children between the ages of 1-3 is just part of the journey. I am doing the best i can, to provide for the future of what is small, and helpless. Pulling into 133 Killington Ave., I see the fenced in pen built for the tiniest people we have. The plastic slide, the caring adults in supervision, the garage equipped with tools to provide them with tiny furniture, to bring dignity to the pint sized. We are all this small inside. Somehow I know this. Riding on with my cargo, I realize what is small in us may be the best of us. All the bigger things we do in life, are just that. Bigger. There will be many roads not taken. And yet the storms swirl over all of it, what we did or did not do, who we took in to shelter & nurture, who we threw out. It’s an individual carving, notched into the side of a tree. No more, no less. In my formative years I did adopt many towers, to climb them, and look out from. To sit in the crotch, the tippy top armchair of a swaying pine, when all below was chaos, was not a bad choice after all. I taught myself to swing up into its branches, though it challenged me due to my shortness. I was mapping my future, each decision, which branch would hold me, which would ensure my demise. At such a young age I knew some things, without knowing I did. My aim to be at the right hand of Jesse James held some merit. I let my best friend be the star. I let her put herself in front of me, while I held the gun, and covered for her. All made of play, all made of imagination. And now its all so real. I am still holding the pop gun, ready to ward off my pursuers, who have no right to overtake what i have gained. By many nights lost in the rain. Sleepless nights, restless nights. Nights with no hope, nights with no joy. Nights with no shelter, nights with no dreams. How I ended up behind the wheel of a truly loyal truck named “Chevy”, with good tires, serviced by selfless mechanics who deal with everything I cannot, is still a mystery. As long as I can drive, as long as it still rains, and rains, and rains, I will keep my sanity. On the way to assisting anyone, who has been just like me, sort of ditched, sort of saved. It’s mixed, like the dodgy weather in Vermont this summer. I cherish everyone, and everything, still pushing up dirt, trying to reach the elusive sun.”
