Sunday summer a.m….
May 29, 2011 § 12 Comments
This is the first day waking up as empty nesters.
At first blush, it seems a highly overrated state of affairs. The house is quiet. Not “old people” quiet, just sleepy quiet.
However, thoughts and fears when horizontal in bed seem to disappear upon becoming vertical, leaping up, looking out between the nighttime curtains, seeing the sun and realizing – oh, some morning sun at last!
Dress like a fireman and swear that everything will be new, way out of the box, going forward. Somehow.
Life is not a series of passages, to check off, like some prediction from some PhD sociologist’s calendar.
Life quivers and moves and stretches.
Waiting for the coffee to seep and emulse in the French press, the lemon on the counter looks lonely.
It might like something pretty to sit on other than the beige stretch of countertop.
Maybe Dali’s candleholder (that madcap artist too well known only for his melting timepieces) would be nice?
Dear Salvatore would never object to a lemon atop his candleholder rather than a bougie.
Huck (ye olde beagle) waits for his breakfast, which is already dished, while I wait for the coffee.
He wants something from the fridge, though, something that has a scent, not the dried dog food that’s good for his teeth and ancient bones. I think of calling him “Skeltor” but dismiss it.
I find some chicken in the fridge that we grilled yesterday and tear up a bit of it, adding it to his dry food with some hot water. He never says thank you. He doesn’t have to. We thank him for being here, for padding around the house, being with us.
His grace is in his loyalty, following us everywhere, to the point of being underfoot. But we don’t mind. He’s nearly deaf and his eyes are cloudy. Still, his world is mainly visual, with a bit of scenting-ability hanging in there. He’s a non-hunting hunter, after all.
He misses Jack, Nor’s dog, though. But Jack went with Nor and her fiancee when they finished packing up yesterday and headed down the road, not totally unlike two pioneers in an old two-horse (two oxen) covered wagon, heading into their (incredibly exciting) future.
The coffee is ready and I step outside through the mudroom door into the morning warm that wraps like a cloud. There is the sound of buzzing and trilling and insect-sawing – it is the cicadas, who crawled out of the ground everywhere last week and climbed into the trees (though many are on the sidewalks, etc.)
This morning, they sing in a primordial haze. It’s muggy and the sun is working hard to burn the moisture out of the air.
Neighborhood humans are already turning on their air conditioners whose hum hits more of a bass F, an odd counterbalance to the nymph cicadas song which is at least the F above Middle C. It is a stream of sound. Those cicadas who are closer or older or bigger perhaps only by days, have learned to make the sawing, cheeping sound we recognize usually in the height of summer evenings. It is a male chorus. It is part of the “look at me” mating cycle of life.
Mother Nature has lifted her skirts so far this year, showing us some very odd ankle, some very rude knees, and a flash of crazy thigh. She is dramatic, dangerous and petulant. She is not purposeful. She just is.
And she is kind to offer this magnificent morning.
This crazy orchestra, this warm light, this buzz and concert of her creatures to this empty nester. That’s the sociologist’s term, though.
There is very little of “emptiness” in this nest.