Water

         “Why this obsession with water?” she said, sipping Buffalo Trace on the rocks.

Declan lowered his phone. “So many posts about Yosemite! Nevada’s  plunging crazy like this year! And Pika’s on fire.”

Pulling a handkerchief from her purse she wiped the glow away from her cheeks. Marguerite swirled her glass. “Your mom loved telling us that story! How she and her girlfriends partied it up while Firefall fell.” Lightly she laughed. “She swore no alcohol was involved!”

A temporary respite this. Both knew time was hunting them down. Rain continued to fall outside the umbrella covered table. Summer heat aside, cobblestones shone brick-red while rivulets ran between. Conversation ebbed and flowed, circling and flowing forward.

Unhurried conversation! Daily life is filled with imperatives. “Don’t forget the meds. Take the dog out. Water bill’s due on Thursday.” Since the Ark set down on Ararat we’ve been paddling upstream.

“As kids we'd hike this local park. We’d walk trails and scramble up sandstone.” Pausing, Declan took a sip. The ice had all melted. “Don’t know why I remember this. Up top after all our scrambling there were pools of water. Rain-fed. As a kid it was this calming, mini-miracle kind of thing. Speaking of tiny-miracles,” raising his glass as for a toast, “here’s to the two we helped escape.”

“Poor Bruce,” she said with a sigh. “The edema almost killed him. That’s done. Now it’s back home where the watchers watch and the keepers keep.”

“Catch you there. Stow the ropes to dry. Leave the light on. I’ll pick dinner up on the way. Damn, this rain keeps falling.”

Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash

A Tunnel Between Two Gardens

“I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your accomplishments;
I reflect on the work of Your hands. I spread out my hands to You;
My soul longs for You, like a weary land. Selah.”

Tapping me on the shoulder, Google photo whispers, “Perspective, perspective.” “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread,” Bilbo says. A good description of the feeling these days. A new prescription is necessary for this short-sightedness. Like a person hiking through a tunnel between two gardens; I forget the beauty behind and the glories ahead.

My wife was exhausted. Caring for her mom 24/7. It was time for our traditional 3- day getaway. With guilt and relief, we left her mom in the care of her brother. Sipping Stone Brewing’s Berliner Weiss we were no longer in So Cal. The air is hot and the cobblestones vibrate as heat radiates upward. Aside from the Rhine the only place that looks cool is beneath the umbrellas. The girl in the dirndl dress brings you a stein. That first sip… Then you realize the tour guide has moved on to the next beer in the flight.

Rioting, looting, a global pandemic, school closures and day-to-day stressors had us ready for a road-trip come summer of 2020. It’s California; the only way to book a hotel is as an ‘essential worker.’ We head to Arizona. There I sit on a wood park bench facing Whiskey Row. Book in hand, I stretch out on that lazy summer evening. Reading, resting and intermittently watching a lightning storm shoot across the sky.

The lightning flashes fade too easily. The brushing breeze, the soul-rest and the wonder are forgotten. A dry space inside the tunnel. A parched place, a weary land. The call is to remember that this moment in it’s weariness (oh, wastefulness) is momentary. We have those snapshots from both sides of the tunnel. The marvels that were and the glories to follow.