My insides are rustling in breezes making the scratching music of dry leaves on dead twigs.
It is a lonely, little song. Not much of a song at all. Just the skittering whispers of my spirit. The wind blowing through the holes, my experiences and knowledge and beliefs all scattered like garden detritus at my feet.
Barren. Bare twig. Dead leaf.
And I make a decision.
I’d rather the wind howl in my soul full of holes. At least the hollow moan is real. Undressed, unfilled, naked, waiting.
The forecast was wrong. No great surprise. I could almost smell the grill, the steaks searing and angry oil throwing flames, waning into a rattling sizzle. Saturday’s clear, blue sky and hours of sunshine intoxicated, invited. We had spent every minute possible outdoors, raking, clipping, clearing the remains of winter — it’s what you do in the Northwest when spring finally becomes a real possibility — until dusk forced us indoors. That night we wore the scent of cool earth in our hair and talked about grilling steaks the next day, starting projects, cleaning the garage. But Sunday, daylight saving’s time Sunday, arrived cloaked in silver gray and by mid-day the rains came. So, disappointed, I boiled pasta and searched my mental repertoire for something brilliant to cook up for lunch. Incredulity settled on my shoulders and I felt the same tight, ill-feeling like when I’ve lost a twenty dollar bill or left my wallet on a store counter. Only, no amount of sky-searching would reveal the sunshine today. We ate lunch by the …