Another day draws to a close—a busy one that sighs itself away—as I pop a squat on the window seat in my bedroom. The sun hovers just above the tree line, readying for its descent, about to drape our home in shadows.
There’s a quiet reprieve in spying my shepherd’s hook in the field, hung with seed and stationed beside the bird bath. I sit with wonder and hope, scanning for a feathered friend.
Evelyn’s got my attention with a balloon-like squish ball, tassels hanging an inch long. We stretch and throw it to each other. When it’s my turn, I squeeze the air to one side, and it reminds me of a ripe heifer’s udder—complete with too many little nubs—and I giggle.
We toss it back and forth, her throws high enough to kiss the ceiling. I worry for the plates hanging on the wall, the outstretched leaves of my plant. But I let us go a little past where my anxiety usually tells me to stop. Then I tell her I’m done. I feel the tug to write—afraid the urge will pass me by—so I open my laptop and type.
I can’t quite put my finger on what worries me, why this pressure sits in my chest like a stone. But in the mockingbird’s flight to the largest oak in the field—joined by smaller birds—I catch a glimpse of the sensation I long for. Freedom.
Freedom through the eyes of a little girl who once gazed at the world in awe and full immersion. And I am tremendously fearful she’s gone.
Gone to the world of responsibility and reality. Of politics and wars and starvation. Of cold truths, where no one cares unless it lines their pockets, where the earth is stripped for sport. Her ideals and sweetness feel like a note no longer played, a song no longer sung.
But her memories are mine. And oh, how sweet they are.
I only wish she didn’t have to die.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 