Few moments are shared in the dawn’s early daze. This time we saw deer walk along the path toward safety. Oh, how the meadow glistened with freedom. With the sweet smell of coffee brewing and binoculars in hand my mom watched.
“This is now school property; they’ll be safe, now. How are you?”
I just sat there and wondered about too many things for such a small space of time. She simply loves getting up. She loves that certain silence. Always has I guess.
Now I know.
“There are horns on that buck, and LOOK -- there he goes over an invisible fence. My folks once had that property in hand. You know that Old Taylor Lake is near dead now. I skated there. A gem I was. And now look at it. Hurts me to even look at it. Suppose those folks who purchased adjacent land, with a view, will see it too?”
Who am I to say much of anything? The words, as I write them, bring tears of love so deep that the lake may well be filled.
In just a moment; a rather rare moment, I spent a morning with my mother.
And oh, how much has been revealed to me.
... it was desperate to feel that one could never be a part of moments
so moving, that always one would be isolated from this landscape and
these people; and then gradually I realized I did not have to be a part of
it: rather, it could be a part of me. Truman Capote -- Local Color (To Europe)
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