|Happiness is the Longing for Repetition (M.A. Reilly, 2009)|
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
-- Led ZeppelinI.
Lately, the birds gathered by the front door seem mostly crazed. New neighbors, who moved in the day after Rob died, cut down two old growth trees--home to any number of birds. Now they who are without a home are trying to make something new.
Most days, birds swoop in and out of the yard, gather on wires that criss-cross the street, and land on and alight from branches of the hemlocks that line our front yard, while others--far more audacious--gather on the front stoop, refusing to leave regardless of who approaches. My friend, Christine, insists that one bird, the one who does not leave, is some spirit of Rob.
The light leaves later each day. And all around me life pulses. Most days I notice. I watch.
Tonight the wind came out of the west with a sudden fierceness and tree limbs broke and fell landing with a loud enough crash to startle both of my brothers and me. A few minutes later, a rainbow briefly appeared in the southern sky and on the back deck, Jack pointed to a small piece of blue shell. Above it the nest remains, empty now.
Sometimes, I think we all are seeking what we might call home. It is all so temporary though.
Each day, I listen for Rob as I walk--noting with a certain curiosity the sudden whistle of the wind, the drone of a distant leaf blower, the call of birds and neighbors as I walk by.
Each night I look for my husband as if he might be playing a bit of hide and seek alongside the clouds that obscure and reveal the moon.
Like Whitman, I know Rob stops somewhere waiting for me.
This is how it is.