Everything's a Little Different
Everything is a little different.
Darker mornings, short evenings; the sun’s path dropping each day.
Seeking sun rather than shade; a fuzzy blanket rather than a fan.
The boozy smell of wasted crab-apples raked into the compost.
Wasps, pushed out of their nests, pissed off and angling for a fight.
A riot of magenta Echinacea blooms now quelled to taupe-tinged pink.
Locking doors and thinking twice about where it's safe to be.
Communities anguished by two damaged men and a knife.
And good bye to the Queen — of 70 years.
Today there is a King. King Charles III. He says
addressing climate change is of utmost importance.
May we all move beyond words to action.
It happens less often,
but I still feel the urge to call my Mom,
until I remember for the hundredth time:
she’s not there to answer.
She’d have wanted to talk about the Queen; her contemporary.
Over 95 years of life for both; everything different.
When I get up in the night, sleepy and scanning for family members,
I feel the emptiness in the corners of the house, and remember again.
Both kids moved out in the past three weeks.
It’s what we want, isn’t it?
For them to move on. To follow their path. It’s good.
And everything is a little different.
The dog is hanging in.
The walks are short and we lift her up the back stairs.
She sleeps a lot and hears not much. Sweet girl.
She looks for them too.
Tea as comfort; coffee as ritual.
I’ve many times plugged in the noisy coffee grinder
outdoors, so as not to wake late sleepers in the house.
Enough coffee in the French Press for two; daily share.
Now I make a half pot which doesn’t taste as good.
Turning back to the comfort of tea.
Eating tart Goodland apples, and sweet garden tomatoes
— the little orange ones startle with flavour.
Corn chowder in the works.
Two kayaks now — not just one. We have some paddling to do.
Re-igniting creative projects
in a house that seems bigger. Emptier. Quiet.
Writing again. I’m happy to be slowing into writing again.
Everything is a little different. Always.
The stuff of life moving through.
Let me catch a bit of it, on the page.
Take it in.
And take it with me into my days.