Sometimes the answer is simple. The way to get over not writing is to write. And so you get this. I’m sitting at one of my desks— yes, I have two but it’s too complicated to explain why. Anyway, I’m listening to the hawk in the next-door neighbor’s tree screech through my open window, hoping he hasn’t nested there since he woke me up at 5:30 this morning. He hasn’t stopped yacking since.
Outside in the garden, the last of the daylilies are blooming. When I realized this earlier, my stomach lurched a little. By the end of July, those orange trumpeters pass, leaving spent blossoms that hang like empty-fingered gloves from browning stalks. Soon the gifts of August arrive— the blazing blue skies and cool nights, my sister’s visit from Australia, our daughter’s eighteenth birthday. But August also brings this. One month from today, we pack up our girl and deliver her to a dorm room a couple of hours away. For the last two-plus years, I’ve been working hard at rebuilding a life, knowing the whole time that it was an interim thing. The real rebuilding starts on August 27.
Ah, the empty nest. Folks get through it all the time and I will too. Today though, I’m putting that thought on the back-burner. Rather than moan about the wrinkled lily blossoms, I’ll focus my gaze on the purple balloon flowers multiplying in the back garden. I’ll stay out of the dining room, where boxes of college supplies have begun to accumulate, and create something yummy in the kitchen with the berries I picked over the weekend instead.
Denial isn’t hard. Focusing on the good makes it easy to disregard that which you choose to avoid. Except for the nail-on-chalkboard shriek of that hawk. He’s impossible to ignore.