Beltane Summer Moon
It must be a little like dying. When I touch something here and imagine the last time, the last time planting seeds in that raised bed, the last time coming down these stairs, the last time leaving our driveway, a hint of sadness gathers around my fingers. Not yet, I say. Not yet.
It is not the same now. And will never be again. Not here. Last month I touched these things and imagined my stewardship of them, how today influenced not only tomorrow, but next year and ten years. Not now. Now I wonder how new hands will care for this soil, the carpet on the stairs.
How will the house feel when it is not our feet that walk its floors? Will it miss our pressure and gait, after all that’s all it’s ever known? Inanimate objects, you might say, are inanimate, but I wonder.
Right now Kate’s playing music on the parlor grand piano. The sound feels lonely, as if it wonders why it has to go. Why can’t it stay with these hands, feel the music played as she plays it? Perhaps it will be sad to go. Or, perhaps it will end up in the hands of a rock and roll, jazz and blues sort who will tickle it in ways it’s never known. Could be. And, it might like it.