This poem is for my husband … Radames. He often says the title as we walk this journey of life together watching nature unfold and observing the world around us. We try to control the world around us, but in truth, no matter how many precautions we take, there is always the flying fickle finger of fate. The key is to appreciate the day and burn endlessly a vision of hope.
The flying fickle finger of fate
One cell a way from cancer
One second away from a car crash
One twist away from a broken bone
One inch away from a sociopath
One email away from a terrorist
One background check away from a shooter
One blueberry away from healing
One cellphone away from distraction
One deliberate step away from a fall
One question away from insanity
One update away from chaos
One law away from a bullet.
it’s not too bad up here so far, the daisies stretch for miles against the green, green trails and I see nothing but blue sky before me. Last night as I was drifting off, Taz, that pain in the butt cat of Claire’s actually came to greet me at the gate. Instead of swiping his paw across my face, he gently stroked my paw and turned his head left for me to follow.
We rode on a carpet of billowy white clouds, you wouldn’t think they could hold so much up here in heaven, but they do. I was walking up the grassy meadow, when I saw my Mu. She was busy chasing a rabbit so she didn’t see me at first, but then, she looked up and her little floppy ears went straight up. “AAAh , AAAAh,” she cried. We bounded down the green lawn from our opposite ends and started licking each other like it was yesterday.
“How are things down below?” she barked. “Not bad, but I am afraid I’ve left our loved ones in a lurch, they didn’t know my plane was coming. Quite frankly it caught me by surprise.”
” There I am Sunday boxing with Claire and then Wednesday night she and Ram are performing the last rites over me. What the heck?”
“Why they can’t tell you, kind of prepare everyone, it sure would make things easier. I would have really liked to get my affairs in order: steal my last piece of garbage with cheese on it; relish my last tummy massage; harrass the heck out of the cat; really enjoy my last walk on the firm ground; make sure Radames rubbed my ears extra long (oh yeh, he did do that).”
After Mu and I talked, I walked over to the intake room, something about my next home, apparently someone needs a whole lot of love and fast, and I’ll only get a short respite time up here in the clouds. I’m going to miss them, Ram and Claire, I feel their love but I wish I could just lick off the tears I see running down their cheeks. Adios from the gentle giant, I’d yell to them.
Its mud season here in upstate New York. Some days are cold and clammy like today when the wind whipped through us on our walk. Other days, the sun shines and a warm breeze pushes through the cold. It’s the time of year when you know its coming, the nice weather, and you hope it comes soon because you just can’t take another load of wood being dragged into the kitchen in the blue sled. People are all a twitter, they come out like the bees when the sun comes out and complain when its cold. We complain that this is the coldest spring we have ever had, but we know it’s not. We complain that this is a real sign that global warming is happening, after all, last year at this time, the lilacs were almost in bloom.
There are nice things about this time of year. The anticipation of all that may be as hope springs anew, the flowers that bloom every week from now until September that keep us looking around. And of course there is the mud. The mud that gets on the dogs paws and the bottom of your pants when you go for a walk, the mud that looks like it would make such a pretty castle or paddy, if only I was 8 again. Someone once said on a day like today, “oh, we will get all muddy out there.” “Great” I said, “it’s mud season, we are supposed to get muddy.”