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March 9, 2004 ~ Making up for Lost Time
Tuesday.
This afternoon, just as the spring snow started falling in earnest, I hiked up Christmas Tree Hill as the huge, wet flakes started to stick. As each landed on my sleeve, I stood transfixed, looking at each individual crystal as they landed, so small, delicate, symmetrical, before they slowly started to melt against my arm. A universe in a millimeter.
I slipped along under the snow-coated pines, absent-mindedly swiping at my nose each time a flake hit it, tickled. I took a side trail, out of curiosity, the remains of old rusted cars, farm equipment, broken windows and door frames and planking. Then I was suddenly in a clearing, and there were houses and a man and his growling dog, staring at me.
"Um. Hello."
"You lost?"
Apparently, I'm trespassing. "Sorry. Didn't realize I'd wandered off of College land." I turned to go.
"Yeah, just head back that way, you'll find the main trail." Another man, older, stepped from behind one of the outbuildings and looked at me suspiciously.
I smiled reassuringly. "Thanks! Sorry."
I slipped back into the pines, the snow, went on up the hill, came out at the edge of the earth. At least, it looked that way. Climbed the hill, and suddenly there was no trail at my feet, only a steep embankment. The clearcut. They finished cutting trees quite some time ago, having left only four trees in the very center. All the rest of that old forest is completely gone.
And now, they're cutting the earth. Huge chunks of the hillside gouged out, a terraced effect, getting ready for the suburban development that is soon to be there. Bright red clay, as far as I could see. Rich forest topsoil long gone. A trail leading to nowhere.
Too tired of it all to be angry, I turned and went back toward the college. Through a field covered in a thin coating of snow.
As I passed the pond, I stopped. Huge snowflakes were thick, drifting gracefully downward against the dark surface of the water, where their reflections drifted upward to meet them, and where they met in the middle, gentle, subtle rings on the water. I stood, amazed. The gentle drifting both up and down white against dark green and blue, the water rings, the soft sound of snow hitting water, the slow-motion dance of it all. I couldn't move.
After a few moments, I thought, This week has been full of good experiences, beautiful moments, and I've not shared a single one of them.
Last week, there wasn't a single night when Morgan came home before eleven at night. Most nights, it was later than that. The restaurant has re-opened; he has been swamped. We didn't see each other much at all, save for late-night raspberry crisp sessions, and falling into bed. It was okay, though, because he was working, after several weeks of very little pay. Once again, we're going to be getting by, and that does feel good.
So, on Friday, I got up early before he had to leave and I cooked a huge breakfast, and he came out of his shower, saw what I had done, ate and ate and ate, and thanked me profusely. We held each other briefly, and he left.
I spent the day cleaning, running errands, writing. I found a self-inflating thermal camping pad at the Goodwill for a few bucks. While browsing the books there, I noticed one stuck back behind the others, nondescript, no title. I pulled it out, and I realized that it was a small photo album. Someone had left all of the pictures in it.
The first was a close up of a newborn baby, still at the hospital, lying propped up on a hospital bed, an adult's arm reaching in from the side of the picture to steady her. Eyes shut tight, still splotchy from birth, tiny clenched fists.
In the next, the same baby, a few days later, two women standing by with huge smiles, reaching toward her. Relatives. A little blonde boy at the edge of the picture, looking at the baby, his expression almost scared.
In the next picture, the little blonde boy, her brother, no doubt, was cuddled up next to the baby, smiling vaguely, happy, full of wonder, carefully patting her shoulder.
Another picture, baby in a carrier, sitting on a deck, her proud older brother standing over her protectively, smiling for the camera.
The last picture, the brother, at a visit to the fire station, dressed in firefighter's gear ten times too big for him, a red plastic firefighter's hat on his head, grinning, having the time of his life.
The rest of the album was blank. Who would get rid of this treasure, a window into two little lives, donate it to the Good Will? Had there been a mistake? I stuck it back where I had found it, touched, hoping that someone else would find it and be similarly touched.
That evening, I heard a friend interviewed on the radio, and I was both excited to hear a familiar voice in the national news, but saddened, knowing the heartbreaking story behind it. An odd feeling, to have known the story blow by blow over the last few weeks, but to hear a much less personal, shortened version on the radio. I called him later that night, to catch up.
When Morgan came home, late, very late, we slept. I woke early, Saturday, worked my three hours at the co-op. When I came home, Morgan and I marveled that we had nearly two whole days to drink up one another's presence. We headed for the Blue Ridge Parkway. We drove as far as we could, then ate our sandwiches on an overlook, in the warm, sunny weather, watching hawks circle in the updrafts through the mountains below.
We found a trailhead and hiked for a while, talking and laughing, then cut up a mountain that we found ourselves at the foot of. Near the summit, we found an old, abandoned road. Grown over with trees at least thirty years old, covered in dead leaves and brush. At the summit, we could see for miles through the trees that have yet to regain their foliage, all of the surrounding mountains, fading to blue shadows on the horizon. An old fire pit there, and a flat place, "We should go camping next weekend or the next." "Yes! Lets." And we will.
Home again as the sun was falling, making love in that light slanting through the windows, then out to dinner at his restaurant, celebrating the fact that we actually have money for once.
Before we left, he looked sheepish. "Um. Melissa? Will you, you know, dress up?" I laughed, looking down at my muddy boots, beat up chords, and thermal shirt. "I never get to see you dressed up anymore."
"Pick something out for me?"
"How about that royal blue dress jacket over a dress shirt... some black pants, your dress boots, the one's with heels?"
"Sure," I headed for the bedroom, then stopped. "No make-up, though, of course."
He scrunched up his nose. "Ew. No, of course not."
Easy to please, that one. Of course, he knows my limits. I didn't even wear make-up at our wedding, why would I wear it now?
After a delicious dinner, we came home, watched a movie entangled together on the couch, and passed out a few hours later, content, and tired from a full day, in each other's arms.
Sunday, another bright, warm day, a very loving waking, he had to go in to work for a few hours in the morning, so I cooked another huge breakfast while he was gone. Again, thanks and laughter and light, then off to volunteer with the wolves, who deserve their own entry tomorrow. A beautiful afternoon of sunlight and fur, wolf kisses all over my face.
Home in the evening, dinner cooked together, then to bed, exhausted and spent, taking all we could of one another, making up for a week of lost time, savoring every moment, living every second as if it were our last, our last with this person who so perfectly fits us.
I've been hording the sunlight and the laughter, the love. I'm sorry I've not shared it. But really, can you blame me?
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