Last week, I walked my friend Anora to
her truck, which was parked on the street near our house. On that clear night, the sky was intensely
black, and the stars seemed etched sharply onto its surface. Anora saw a shooting star when she looked up,
and after that we both stood there in the cold looking up, hoping for more, and
trying to name the stars we saw above us.
I glanced over at the house as we stood
there. The bare rose of Sharon bushes in
front were strung with large, multicolored lights, and the lamppost in the yard
twinkled with tinsel garlands. On the
gate to the backyard, a wreath made of twigs and small white lights lit up a
red bow. Inside, Marilyn awaited.
I was struck then by a familiar feeling of
gratitude and comfort that returns now and then when I look at the house, a
feeling often accompanied by surprise and awe:
“I live here. This is my
home. I am rooted here.”
Just a little earlier, other friends who
make up our writing practice group had left the house after a holiday potluck
that has become an annual tradition. Inside
Anora’s truck, her baby was asleep, tucked under a blanket I had knitted while
we waited for her to arrive nearly a year ago.
Looking at my life in that moment, from
that angle, I felt enveloped in its warmth and was a little humbled by my good
fortune.
 |
|
On a hike with my friend Patti last
week, I once again saw my world from another angle. As we walked in the forest preserve less than
a half hour from where I live, the land dipped and rose:
|
