Learning to Lean...

He stood from the recliner and grasped the rails of the walker and began the slow process of moving toward the bathroom. More from fear of pain than actual pain--clunk, swoosh, hop; clunk, swoosh, hop--across the tiles to where the wall paper was too flowery and too cheerful, the commode that awful shade of seventies marble, the decor screaming for an update. As he did his business, he looked toward me in the hallway and said "Thank you" with his eyes...

I simply nodded in return, knowing spoken word would ruin--not the moment, but the depth of it. Words fail even in the best of times. As I helped him up and followed him back on that slow march, he eased himself back down into the plush fabric. A sigh escaped, and the sweat beaded faintly on the forehead. I patted his arm and he gripped my wrist. I squeezed back.

---

As the undecided weather fell in various forms of liquid, we walked down the long drive, rutted and puddle-ridden. The cold wind bit through all of our jackets and the crunching snow tried to give away the quiet, somber-mixed-with-camaraderie air we exuded.

As we left what was once a decent driveway and started through the fields, our eyes drifted toward the once-familiar landscape: the creek, certain trees, where there once was a bank... Not that the battered white pick-up near the beginning was new (only in the sense of not having been there when we last were), there was a mixture of peace and apprehension in this midnight excursion. When we did come upon the old tree, half dead and mostly withered, surrounded by a field that had been as forgotten as the vows which brought us here, we began digging.

Into the hole went a box of mementos, treasures, keepsakes and memories. The paper which was supposed to have kept the promises; the photos which kept testimony to the better times; a few scraps of this and that which were private now only for the company of one box. Solemn silence interspersed with jokes only the Hughes boys could truly appreciate on such an occasion. (Yes, we are the ones who find joy even at the funeral...) As we joined hands under the snowy drizzle ("Is it gay to hold hands?" "No, it isn't..." "Dude, your hands are warm!" "Um, okay, that was kind of gay...") and held a moment of peace, of prayer, of sharing, it was more than a box that will forever be embraced under the dying roots. The passage of time here had stayed its hand for the most part, and perhaps the hope was that this place would also heal, or freeze even, the changing aspects of life that were at the very least uncomfortable... Only time will tell if childhood places can heal adult wounds, but there was the faith, buried with the box, and hope would spring forth...

---

As I slid beneath the blankets and breathed deeply the still air only a lived-in house can share, Beaux curled up onto the small of my back and Hawthorne gently sidled up beside my legs. They sang to me a lullaby of purrs and whimpers, their very happiness at my presence a gift. The weeks have been long, some of the nights too short, some of the days too dreary. A rough pink tongue lapped at my fingers, and two tiny paws began to knead. As I drifted off into that dreamless sleep, content that things were taking a positive direction in quite a few lives despite the obvious hurts--physical, mental, and emotional--I vowed to remember this moment. Things had changed for a lot of people lately, but there was also peace to be found in the midst of the turbulence.

We are learning to lean. And it was still good...