To Be a Moth
I'm sitting on my front porch, last glass of rose' on the chair beside me. My old Addie sits at my feet. Charlie on guard at the top of the step, Bella his sister, three feet behind him in the open doorway in a twin stance. Cricket and cicada calls surround me on three sides—the crickets a never ending low pitched or is it actually high pitched continuum?, the cicada—is it a cicada or a tree frog? its calls break the continuum every four seconds—a natural symphony soon to be curtailed by the first frost—and to top it all off, Jim playing the piano behind me in the music/library room. So clear and strong—"What a Wonderful World", listening he comes fully back to me. I do not turn around as that would destroy my myth. Rather I think he is here with me, we are living our lives. Like the soft scent of the finger-like cimicifuga—a plant known to ease pain—bittersweet. Such blessed romance from his fingertips to my now. I so miss his playing daily in our home. I now fill it...
