I walked to our neighborhood park, the one on the lake by our house. It gets a lot of traffic this time of year with the early morning anglers fishing off the dock and the teenagers and toddlers who flock to the beach, the sports fields and playgrounds. It’s an idyllic spot with the tall trees and open fields, and of course the peaceful little lake (non-motorized boats only), the occasional figure paddling by with a canoe.

Walking to the lake shore, tagging it and turning around, was a throwback to my morning ritual when I worked at Starbucks and would need to drive a half an hour to the office every day. I’d come to the lake as a daily routine and dedicate my visit to a loved one with a short prayer; the lake became my wishing well. Just the reflection of the sky in the water and some birds, the empty dock, the quiet houses on the opposite shore. How the morning sky lit the high windows.

Lily was leaving soon, had gone to San Francisco as a goodbye to her boyfriend. It was a pre-leaving to the longer leaving and we wouldn’t see her again until Christmas.

All of it hurt. When I was a kid and leaving everyone looked sad and I was too, but I was ready to get on with my life and surely that’s how it is for her now. But for me, the dad, to see her go, I feel it all. Feel the regrets at times, the things I wish I couldn’t remember. Having a good memory cuts both ways.

After 24 hours of rain the earth rejoices. The big maple in our backyard is dripping in the dark and the moon just came out, it’s clear. Ghostlike clouds skittering by, the moon scoured out like some melon. With it not raining for so long you forget how the tall grass flops over or the low tree branches hang down. The way the browned patches of lawn look almost red up close, the color of the Scottish Highlands.

Drinking coffee in the dark by the window in the den with the moonlight. Two low stars to the east though one could be a planet, the sky getting light. The way life falls into these sing-song patterns and can feel indistinct or unremarkable. Like a cloud layer passing over, occludes everything. How you get it to burn off when you’re down here on the surface.

The days start to get squeezed on either end by invisible pinchers, the moon empties out once more.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Poetry, prose

Tags: Memoir, Poetry, spirituality