Two gold finches fluttered wildly together, ducked and dove, slid airborne over freshly mown grass and rose together; molten gold streaming above the side lawn…singing as they disappeared around the corner and off in the direction of the lake. Blessings. The smaller life gifts tumbled generously all around recently; velvet pockets of hope emptying and resting lightly as fragile gossamer above the black line of the pandemic, gas lines, division and rancor, missing students…uncertainty all around. She breathed slowly.
Reticent pounding rose next door as one or two early rise construction workers began building a neighbor’s patio; too early for serious noise…small beginnings nevertheless, a wacking of a steel hammer…someone shouted. Silence.
The porch was heating up…after a thousand mornings of grey and rain, the land began to bloom and burst forth. May in these parts was often a cautious experiment in hope; altering days of weak snow, thick rain, sudden heat and rapid growth; a shuddering bridge between winter and summer…one of those silken pockets of hope. Every morning was new, different…surprising.
The sound of the early bus creaked somewhere toward the back of the neighborhood; a roundabout, thick black wheels, braking…up the hill, grinding as it heaved left…and…gone. It was time to go. She rose up and headed to her office, to the laptop waiting on the desk.
The new child from Equador was seated and ready. 7:30 on the dot. Headphones. Attentive. Eager. Still puzzled. Hoping.
In the early morning pandemic shuffle, general chaos…cameras flickering on…blankets, dusky bedroom interiors…a dog…a parent cursing and then quickly silent as the mute button shuts it all off. Initial attendance noted. The crowd staggers in at a variety of times. Attendance will have to be taken a second time and then a third and final time around 12:15. Coffee. Go…
690 Saint Paul 