Sydney and I took Summer to school and as I automatically pulled into the driveway and around the big spruce and crawled to a stop, I realized, “Oh, Sydney and fairgrounds.” It was cold in the car; we hadn’t had time to warm up, but there he was looking at me. So I put it in reverse, turned around and we drove back onto the street and headed for the FG.
It was not yet truly light as I wound my way through the trees on the narrow camping road, following the slightly filled-in tracks from our visit the day before. Not enough light to work a Sudoku as I let him out to run. I could see the snowflakes drifting through the dim light in front of me and the heater was warming me . . . and it occurred to me there is something pleasing about watching the purity of a quiet winter morn from a warm spot. Watching it alone; just yourself.
You are there, sort of inert. What you are is what you are. No other personalities serve as catalysts to bring out your not-so-good traits. No one is there to put on a front for, no one to hide tears from. Tears for those who have gone and who were hurt by you being you because you were so long to wise up. Tears for those with whom you have lost opportunities, have not tried hard enough. Actually, the tears are for you; you cry for yourself and the tears carry the stress hormones and ease things a little – maybe make the truth a little easier to look at in retrospect. Well, what it is is that you are feeling sorry for yourself. But there in the quiet of a morning when life is stripped to the bare bones, you really don’t think about why this or why not that. It is just a brief time when you are honest with yourself and it hurts. And you are human.
Years ago, well, nine to be exact, you spent hours driving Alison to work in Fort Wayne and back home, then back to get her and bring her back 12 hours later. Death had come to someone you had loved forever and in the car, there was the sound of John Denver and the muppets and the song “When the river meets the sea.” You would hit replay and after awhile, you could cry quietly; often you would get home before your tears had run their course and you thought: “The road isn’t long enough.”
Well, never mind that now. Light has become stronger and you see movement: squirrels running freely from tree to tree. They are not worried. A thought clicks, “Where IS that dog?” For a moment, you wonder if because he is old, he has grown tired for the last time and is lying somewhere. You brace yourself . . . and then, in your line of sight between the hood of the car and the ground beyond, there are those floppy ears. With the door open, he jumps in and his fur brushes softly across your face. And ir feels a little as if the final notes of a bagpipe playing Amazing Grace are lingering in the distance.