A life imagined

I wake early and I am out the door in minutes. I cannot be groggy in this brisk morning air. The walk through the woods is a mile long, but the birds sing, and so do I. You are with me when I sing. I sift dirt through my fingers as I pull weeds; I sift the thoughts, relationships, and responsibilities through my mind but they do not worry me. Tiny green leaves miraculously rise from the ground. When I return I think of sitting down to pray, but find I've been praying all morning long. I go to see my good friend Georgia this morning. We drink a cup of coffee and laugh. Then we work to write about her family, her songs, her history. It is a project that I began several years ago. We work slowly, but there is time. The afternoon is for the children. I arrive early to practice the piano. It is discipline that brings joy. When the girls come at 2, we sing, learn piano, and talk about the things that people talk about in quiet voices at night. I feel you in the silences, and know they do too. There is no doubt they are yours. The day closes and I sit on the porch to thank you and to write these interwoven stories that beg to be told. A friend interrupts, and we run out in the street with a frisbee. I will not get back to my writing tonight. Even as the night falls I do not fear the time; I am younger now than when I was not so old. The golden trees will be there tomorrow. The children are sleeping and they are loved. This longing as I gaze at the moon is neither sorrow nor anxiety but only the certain hope that I will see tomorrow, for I know that tomorrow will be as pregnant as today.