If I stand at the back of my parking spot, I can just see the edge of the setting sun. The sky ripples with color. I gaze upon the backlit trees, dark and dreamy. A wind rises and wafts across the meadow.
The dawns and dusks in the California Delta dazzle me. Only by driving seventy miles west and parking on the ocean would I see more beauty; and then, only by virtue of the endless expanse of water rippling beneath wide swathes of crimson. Tonight I consider taking up my walking stick to climb the hill to the levee road and watch the full display. But fatigue persuades me that a glimpse of the show will suffice.
Autumn will soon relinquish its lovely, gentle embrace of Andrus Island. If we are lucky, we will have rain. Last week’s record-breaking storm might foretell a return to rainy months. My fourth year here draws to a close, perhaps simultaneous with the end of the three-year drought. Either way, nights grow colder. I’ve taken the fans from the windows and switched out my summer coverlet for the quilts of winter. I’ve shaken the folds from my heavy clothing and knitted shawls. My coats hang on the pegs beside my wool hats. The sunbonnets nestle in the cedar chest, awaiting the return of spring.
I’m remembering the Halloweens of yesteryear; my son and his friends dressing as monsters, collecting candy for themselves and pennies for UNICEF. We made the circuit in three neighborhoods, then settled at my dining table for hot chocolate. The mothers made popcorn and drank tea while the boys sorted candy bars and traded for their favorites. They’d fall asleep on the floor of my son’s bedroom clutching the plastic pumpkins and paper bags which they had carried from house to house.
Those days seem centuries past. That woman who gathered boys around her might have been someone else. I no longer see her in the morning mirror, nor do I recognize myself in the rare photos of that hopeful young mother. Sometimes I yearn to fall into the pages of my photo album; to wrap my arms around those babies and beg them to stay small. I want to take that woman’s face between my hands and plead with her to take care of what she says and does. All of it matters. All of it counts. None of it can be erased.
I turn to go into the house. Across the greenspace behind my house, my neighbor walks the circle with her dogs. I raise my hand but she doesn’t see me in the dimness of the gathering night. She continues walking; and when the light has fully faded, I go inside my tiny house and close my door against the chill.
It’s the thirtieth day of the ninety-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
