The dog days of summer aren’t so bad.
With Kristen here, I’ve felt so relaxed, so in the moment — I get better at living in the moment as the years go by. She keeps asking me if I need to answer emails, I keep telling her I should, but then I don’t, and we go spend the day at the river instead. Pardon me. Please! The thing is, my best friends all live miles and miles from here. I see them individually, once a year at best, so when I am with them, I try to be with them. I know you understand.
We’ve been bringing in the roses.
The air in the house rings sweetly with the silky and sensual froth of the queens of flowers.
I sometimes feel guilty for having a yard this mature, this lovely, this blooming…every summer.
The peach tree is growing fuzzy things. The plums threaten to snap branches. The grapevines reach so greedily for unfettered space.
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The fire boys came over yesterday to help me with the lawns. Jimmy was fighting with his wife about whether or not he’ll pursue smokejumping next year — I cut him three long stem roses in coral, peach and red to take home to her in a mason jar. Today, Eric’s wife, also a hotshot in a city two hours away from here (she’s so tough and tall and beautiful), comes to Pocatello for the first time this summer. I told him to stop by for roses on his way home from work this evening.
I’ve cut roses to keep.
So selfish with the petals, I am.
So selfish with the petals, I am.
I have them floating like sweet surrenders in shallow bowls on the nightstand, in the bathroom, on the window ledge by Kristen’s bed, in the parlor, in the kitchen adjacent to the wildness of the jasmine. When I cut them from their brambly stems out in the rose garden, I wonder if I should. I know they’ll bloom out quickly in the heat. Perhaps moving them into cool water in the house is a sort of tender mercy. They’re spared for a couple of days before they nod their heads and drop their fancy dresses to the floor like tall ladies in silk gowns after a long evening of dancing and pressing painted lips to slender cigarettes.
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The world seems so lithe and green.
So long suffering.
So breezy, light and unflappable, at the moment.
These are lean months, fat with fruit and flowers.
Me too.
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I take Kristen to the airport tomorrow morning.
I’ll have three full days to gather myself before another best friend arrives for a visit and an adventure.
Somewhere over in the North Cascades, RW is jumping out of airplanes, a river is flowing to the sea, a trout is sunning its silver sides in the alpine air and everything is fine.
So fine.
I hope it is for you too.
If it isn’t, take off your shoes and put your bare feet in some grass or in a strand of clear mountain water.
Feel your soul expand.
So fine.
I hope it is for you too.
If it isn’t, take off your shoes and put your bare feet in some grass or in a strand of clear mountain water.
Feel your soul expand.
A good and restful sabbath to you all,
The Plume
:::Post Scriptus:::
Because I have now received a few emails about it, I thought I would state here that the wildland firefighter from Boise who recently passed away while fighting a fire in Texas was neither a friend or family to us (though all fire fighters are brothers of sorts) — thank you for your kind notes of concern, God rest his soul. xx
