Bull of the Woods

All there is today is to take a walk or fix dinner, to take my car and have it fixed. This is a Monday without attachment, a Monday that doesn’t stick to you. And for that it could be any day. A stream of days with no faces or names, a necklace or a noose.

Here at once I am back by the river, the way the morning light makes it look bejeweled. We are young in our days of family car-camping, the girls picking through stones by the shore. And I am thinking that this is the life I always wanted to live, and I never want to leave this moment.

And we try to go back every year but we miss a few, and the kids are harder to wrangle now with minds of their own, and that morning by the river gets sealed into a family album that’s safe from harm, safe from the sun. The sun that makes things grow but drains all the color from our faces until those pictures are just like us, bleached out and fading.

We went camping to a remote area outside of Portland and my friend’s car slipped off a forest road and got stuck in the mud. But before that, how we celebrated being out! He with his son and me with Lily, and thank heavens we had fire starter with all that rain. I got my car attached to a tree and separated part of the body from it backing up, but dealt with that today. The sun set past 9. Lily and I made plans to camp again and baked salmon. The frogs sang all night as our fire burned down and in the morning we had coffee and another fire and then packed up in the rain. How many more days did we have like that still? There are no days like any other days if you’re living them as you might.



Categories: microblogging, parenting, prose, writing

Tags: , , , , ,

8 replies

  1. the stream of days and the river are very much the same, keep flowing, different each day, no name for each one

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Excellent use of the word “bejeweled,” itself an under-appreciated gem. And an excellent point about the sun, giving life to the living parts, and taking it from the artificial, man-made ones. It’s like it’s trying to make a point, in a scorched-earth kind of way. Everything we make crumbles, and more, is actively fought against. Harmony, subjugation to, or dominance over nature? Nature won’t tolerate the latter. And another great last line, there at the end of all things.

    Is this gloomy? I don’t mean to be all gloomy. 😁

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hey, I bought the Paterson collection at your inspiration and this was an angle off that, albeit splintered! Happy you read and love your reflections, thanks old Hoss. Going camping tomorrow at lower Lena Lake and wish you could join me.

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      • I wasn’t aware of a Paterson Collection, so I looked it up and it seems you’ve bought a $1.5 million compendium of Dalmore single malt Scotch whiskeys.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Ha ha how poetic! Not! Seriously, thanks for turning me on that film and to that collection of poems, albeit indirect. Flowy, like the waterfalls

        Like

  3. Good reminder. Wish I walked the walk more.

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  4. And as the days and years slip by, gluing the memories down gets a little harder; perhaps because the glue isn’t as strong, perhaps because the sheer weight of accumulated memories takes a stronger glue to attach the special memories to the top.

    Liked by 1 person

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