My neighbor has fallen in love. Before, we were two hermits living next door to each other. Today his sweetheart moved in. I’ve been glad for him from day one, for both of them, for this unexpected love. But now they sit talking only two handfuls of feet away from my window. Sometimes they talk for hours. Mostly I am able to let go of it, again and again, and be okay. Tonight I can’t let go. I just keep feeling intruded upon. It isn’t as though I can get away from them. This is where I live. I become desperate. I wonder if I will have to wear earplugs to do my work, to do my writing. I remind myself how much worse this could be, this intrusion. It could be loud music that rattles the walls of my trailer, music that feels 100 times worse than nails on chalkboard. (Banish the thought. Poof! Poof!) I could be listening to racist conversations or staunch Trump devotees. (Banish the thought. Poof! Poof!) I remind myself how much I like the two of them, truly like them. I remind myself of the sweetness in this, hearing them navigate their new love. I don’t hear words, mostly, only the tenor of things. Thoughtful, honest, getting to know each other conversations, bearing souls. My heart becomes gladder. Now I hear big raindrops on the trailer rooftops through the open sliding glass door. Everything eases. I come back to my senses with the smell of the rain. Their voices murmur now. I take a deep, full breath. I remember how lucky I am.
I type, my legs stretched out before me, computer on my lap, afternoon sun beside me on the couch. I am revising a piece I wrote in our Monday group, an hour left before the contest deadline, midnight in the UK. I read my work out loud, like I teach my students. I find tiny things to change. I am deep in the writing when I hear a hummingbird, look up to see her in the living room, the female guardian of the feeder outside the open louvers. In the corner of my eye I think there is another flash, but surely not, not two of them inside at one time. My familiar female hovers near me, then visits the red glass star hanging in the window. When she flies out I hear her friend, still in the room with me, not my imagination. She peers out the kitchen window to the courtyard, then rests on one of the open louvers before leaving me alone, the flutter of hummingbird wings reverberating in the room.
My book manuscript sits on the stool, clean new printout, spiral bound. Now and then I pick it up, rub the clear plastic cover with one hand the way I used to stroke my cats. I cradle it against my chest with both arms, rocking side to side. I am in love with its fresh newness. I am in love with its story. I am in love with its existence after all these years. I am eager to make my final pass or two through its pages. But I am not doing it. I think that’s okay. I trust I’ll pick it up at the right time. I wonder if I’m avoiding, resisting, afraid to finish. And if I am, is it because I don’t want it to be over? Because I don’t want to have to grieve? Or is it because I am afraid of what comes next? Maybe all of it is true. But I am comforted to see it waiting for me on the stool. That feels like a good sign. “Soon,” I murmur. “Soon.”
I stand at the kitchen sink washing and cutting vegetables for soup. It is late dusk. I work in a small circle of light from the stove. I smell garlic, dandelion greens, leeks, green onions, olive oil. “You can close your eyes,” James Taylor sings. “It’s all right.” A white crowned sparrow’s melodic call comes through the open window, pure, piercing. A fullness wells up in me, that blend of sweetness and sadness, this fleeting life. I slice mushrooms with slow, even strokes of the knife, tears in my eyes.
I am away from home for a week over Christmas. I send good wishes from afar. May the birds have plenty of seeds. May their water bowls be refilled each day. May all the crickets and daddy long legs and lizards and birds and the trees and plants be safe in my absence. I come back to Palm Springs on Amtrak, take the city bus, walk three blocks with the big rolling suitcase I took with me when I left to carry my presents to my mother’s. I see my bougainvillea, my wooden fence. Doves scatter as I approach. I glimpse a hawk gliding after them across the courtyard. I stop in the middle of the road. The hawk comes, settles on the gate before me. I don’t breathe. Maybe I can’t. The timing is too precise not to feel greeted, welcomed, awed, grateful. I stand still long moments while he watches me. When he flies off, I open the gate. I breathe again. I’m home.
Big waning daylight moon
Full heart greeting
my mother’s tree glistens in the window.
At night 120 miles away my solar Christmas lights
glow and arc in the bougainvillea
silent and dear without me.