In Book One of his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle observes, “One swallow doesn’t make a summer.” He is making a point about fulfillment, the parameters of a successful life. How many swallows make a summer? I was wondering that this morning as I swam, the water so much cooler now that the night temperatures have dropped, the mergansers grown, the loon babies now the same size as their parents. How many swallows were darting and dipping over the water? 2, then 4, and finally 7, some of them so close to me I could see their tawny underparts. How many loons make a summer? This year, a family of 8 regularly appeared as I swam early, before the crowds, before the heat.
How many arrows fill a quiver? I ordered an archery set for the summer visits and John’s been teaching a few of the kids, the older ones, how to shoot. (He was a boy archer.) But my hidden agenda was that I wanted to learn to use the equipment myself. Years ago, when Brendan received a bow for his birthday, I used it a few times and loved the intense focus, the concentration. I loved the vocabulary: the fletching, the nock, the quiver, the rest. This morning I shot 5 arrows and 4 of them were inside the target, one of them in the second circle. John said I had very good form and I’ve felt the glow of that observation all day. (I have nine arrows in my quiver.)
How many, how many. Right now, there are two families of 4 in our house. (A family of 4 left last Thursday.) 10 of our summer plates are stacked on the table, 10 napkins in rings, a basket holds 10 silver-plated forks and 10 silver-plated knives. Last night we had a chocolate torte for Karna’s birthday and a little silver pastry fork accompanied each slice. This afternoon we ate cinnamon buns on the elementary school field, a few swallows in the sky closer to the marsh by the post office.
2 girls, 3 days apart, develop performances for our pleasure. The big rock on the mossy field is the stage. Their brothers help as stage managers, general factotums. One brother played dead and the 2 princesses in the play said, Oh, well, we’ll bury him tomorrow.
How many swallows make a summer? 2, or 4, or 7? Tomorrow I will be the one stringing the bow, nocking my arrows, fixing my eyes with their threadbare retinas on the paper target, focused and hopeful, while the children of summer race in the moss.
...Theresa Kishkan 