My Sacred Little Moments

The seagrass lays wrapped in dried algae. The logs are unearthed and scattered. The rocks though have remained grounded. I think of the three pigs. The path will need a little work this summer. Sunlight sparkles jewels across the water and for just a moment I feel its warmth before the heavy clouds roll back in. I will remember to stick with the Rock.

I heard it was 75 degrees and sunny at home today. Here on the Island it’s cold rainy cozy, giving me the okay to spend hour after hour on the couch with a book and blanket. Todd made grilled cheese. Yawning, I finally put on my shoes, leaving Sam behind at the door, to get some air and wake up enough to make dinner. I breathe in the moist air when suddenly the sky opens up a doorway to the light far beyond reminding me the Light is with us and in us.

Easter morning I wake hearing the murmers of my parents voices in my head from the bedroom beneath us. Soon they’d be up and showered for church. The Baldwin piano would be played and there’d be that scent of Old Spice. They would sit at the table eating breakfast together, sharing thoughts and concerns, making lists of what needed to be done to care for those in their lives. I remember their hands holding cups of hot coffee as their knives spread butter on coffee cake. It’s resurrection morning. I think of Christ’s hands.

Missing them, I pull on some clothes and head outside for a walk wearing my mom’s red jacket over my dad’s blue sweatshirt. With the woods on both sides of me, I pick up my pace hoping to make it to the fork and back. That would be three miles. The sweep of white wings draws my attention to the trees and I wonder what has white wings that size in the woods? I think of the angel who spoke to the women at the tomb, telling them Jesus wasn’t there and to not be afraid.

We go to the white church on Main Street with the steeple Dad rebuilt. The Cross on its pinnacle shines golden as we park. We’re the last to arrive and we sit in the back corner. Mom and Dad would have been early giving hugs, shaking hands, sitting far front. The pastor strums his guitar, sings loud and off key, and I look at my lap to not giggle. I cringe when we’re asked to turn and greet those around us but I say proudly that I’m Bill and Dee’s daughter. Oh I loved them, the woman tells me. I lost my father last year, she adds, and turns away before I can answer.

We straighten up the cabin, then eat eggs and toast. We just make the ferry and leave the Island in thick fog. Somehow the melancholy I feel fits. I try not to judge it. As we drive off the ramp the sun beams in blue sky like we’ve risen from a tomb to new life. It’s Easter. I smile and say thank you.

I have.

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