“Now bugs are gonna start popping…” Jay’s voice floats on the last gust from the west end of the lake. Standing in willow bog to my ankles, glacial fed water numbs mosquito bites as I untangle my line from roseroot drooping over peat banks as Narcissus.
For minutes the wind dies, towards sunset. And here, for moments, all is as it should be. At least as I’ve worked it out in my head. Midges hatch, trout rise, and soon we will go to bed with the sun. Like being tucked in by a woodstove on a snowy day, this, is a world put to rights. Balanced, my feet on its tip-top, standing on its head peaked with white crowns. Here, I see clearly. Through the clouds that build every day is the reminder that while they are constant; yet they will part, break up, move on. The twilight will fall into darkness, and in the cycle of lives they are always there and will remain. Circling like seasons on a preschool felt board – Nature plays her hand as we learn. And hopefully, remember.
Remember these moments, which threaded together make the memories that make lives. Holes here and there, yet holding strong. They are a narrative of time, place, people – the stories that when once we reach the end, stick together like a song. Like the old one you pushed on a shelf, marked in a red-bound hymnal that comes back again and again, worming a hole in your ear and doubt. For in it, you can hear your mother singing and taste grape juice waiting for amen on your tongue.