I was awake last night, wondering about the Perseids. The previous night I’d gone from my bed to the dark deck, just a few small solar lights stuck in potted plants, and I leaned against the railings. One, two, three satellites, doodling across the sky. And then a meteorite, so swift I almost missed it just by the vain queen Cassiopeia. I had a wish prepared. I had two wishes and luckily another meteorite shot across the heavens. I returned to bed and half an hour later John got up, then Forrest and Manon came up too. I heard them outside, exclaiming as they too saw the meteorites and made their own private wishes.
...beneath the tender protest of
the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
But last night there was haze, smoke haze or clouds. I remained in bed, thoughtful. The days are so full. Yesterday, the usual morning swim in Ruby Lake, and then later, an ocean swim at Francis Point. When I looked down at grandson A., he had wrangled a long length of bull kelp to shore and was examining it on the barnacled rocks.
This morning in the lake, I was listening to the boys throwing sticks for the caretaker’s dog (she comes to clean the little park when we are swimming so we’ve grown fond of her new pup who is as active as the grandsons) and I was thinking about wishes. Do we make them for ourselves or others? If you see two meteorites, is it ok to send one wish out to the world at large and keep one for your own private hopes?
John is out cutting firewood and one of the grandsons is keeping him company. The other is perched on the big rock in the meadow of moss, humming to himself. Or wishing. I have watered the decks and the laundry is whirling in the machine. 5 ripe figs wait on the counter to be wrapped in prosciutto and grilled on the barbeque. Pesto for dinner tonight, and ripe tomatoes. Last night we had blackberry ice-cream, the simplest kind, berries and cream and a tablespoon of brown sugar. I don’t like it, I love it! E. told me twice. Forrest and Manon left early for a couple of days away on their own so there are two fewer towels on the railings. These are days I wish for winter when the night comes down too soon and we keep adding logs to the fire.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife-edge of the snow with the voices of
the dead dahlias.
(Note: the lines are Lorca's, from "City That Does Not Sleep", translated by Robert Bly. And photograph by Manon Labelle.)
T
