Grandfathers, Smoke and Trellises

Beholden to open windows on starry, October nights.

One grandfather was pious and devout in his Catholicism and the other was caustic with foul language and love for vices. Yet the religious patriarch was a cardboard man, expressing love with his mouth but emptiness in depths. The other man was abusive to his children but drank from wells much deeper than priests. Leaves turn from life, cut off from that which feeds, and fall to gather at my feet. They burn in a hurry and I think of my grandfathers swirling in smoky memory. I wonder if they ever existed.

Outdoor plants and herbs come inside for winter. Sunday passes in expanding the garden for next spring – moving rocks, rearranging borders, putting the soil to bed. Ego pictures the finished worked but truth is the work. After pulling stakes, I coil the fence wire but cannot get it as tight as I'd like. My backaches and I'm glad about it.

He and I walk after dinner, a compromise of willingness which should go further than it does. I mess up in the tender places and realize that starting again doesn't mean getting somewhere. The dog plods along with stiff hips and neighbors pass saying, “what a lovely couple!”

Last night I dreamt about a tunnel trellis and now I'm wondering how to make one in the new garden space. To think is to form.

One wakes to consent to healing. The way was promised and that which is born in time will end. There is no otherwise. Slowly smoke lifts to reveal a Thought of peace to which the grandfathers both say, “yes, daughter.”