warm comfort

The phone woke us in the early morning. "It's Mom," my husband said, and I knew in a moment that she was gone.
We gathered as family on August 11, which was my parents anniversary. It seemed an appropriate day to remember and celebrate her life, entwined as it was with my fathers.
It's strange that one of the happiest memories I treasure of my mother came out of my father's memorial service. It was as everyone gathered after the service to visit, and glancing up, I saw her sitting at a table in the center of the room. She was completely surrounded by woman she loved and they were leaning in. I couldn't hear, but could clearly see the warm comfort of their friendship and my mother was......beaming.
It's that smile of joy I remember.
I'm thankful for the gathering we had this summer. Family came from near and far. Mostly far. It was a gift of warm comfort......and of joy.

beginning to be

We saw the mother first, feeding her babies a mouthful at a time. In and out she darted, a sliver of cobalt blue, her nest a tangle of dry grass and mud under the porch roof.
Four little baby birds.
Four startlingly gaping beaks.
When we arrived Monday afternoon, they were all beak, all chirp and cheep and fuzz, wavering at nest edge.
My granddaughter named them Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo.
When we left three days later, they were beginning to be swallows, sleekly slim, eyes black and bright as beads. 

shows us

My granddaughter was crying.
Standing with cupped hands overflowing with hermit crabs.
Tiny pets.
Little friends.
How quick she is to love.
Ahhh, 'parting is such sweet sorrow.'
What is so sweet about the sorrow of parting?
It shows us where our passions lie.

rippled away

"Look at its little face," my grandson whispered as we hovered over a slender snake, frozen in flight. There had been two. One magically melted into the tangle of dry leaf cluttering the edge of the house at our approach. The other recovered its courage and slowly, slowly rippled away.

ominously

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" screams my tiny granddaughter. "Pirates!" And sure enough, out in the bay, rocking ominously at anchor, a sailboat with the Jolly Roger snapping in the breeze.

tradition

A volley of pounding echoes overhead.
"The morning tradition," my husband says, smiling.
Upstairs, our landlord's wife is pounding roti dough into submission.
Later today leftover bits will be broken up and tossed on the lawn.
An entire flock of sparrows will drop from the sky, their chestnut heads bobbing joyously..
Blackbirds too.
And while sparrows squabble,  black birds will dart in an out like wind up toys gone mad.

P.S. Turns out the pounding has to do with tea and not roti at all. Spices are pounded fresh each morning for Chai Tea. Ahhhh. What could be more traditional than tea?

welcome mat

I have just shown a spider the door. Given it 'the bums rush.' What a great expression. Not a very compassionate one but there you have it.
Against the stark white of dropped ceiling was a thug of a spider.
The biting kind.
I've been unpacking.
Lots of boxes and paper and clumping about.
It has caused a disturbance in the smaller kingdom I suppose.
Maybe the spider decided the neighborhood was going down hill.
Out he swaggered.
I grabbed the nearest thing to hand.
An antique canning jar and piece of paper.
I had to stretch and reach.
The spider did his own stretching and reaching.
Now he was on the jar lip.
Now he was on the outside of the jar.
Now he was on the paper.
Now our eyes were on lock and hold.
Now I was sprinting for the door.
Oh oh.
Both hands were full.
Empty jar in one hand and desperate spider gaining its bearings on the other.
He's outside now.
I dusted him off onto the welcome mat.