We stood at the edge of my Father’s grave this morning. The hill wound up and around and I was confused. The place appeared brilliantly different from the burial day in January when we stood by the open pit, clothing pierced and whipped by snow, frozen with shards of fine ice and wailing wind. I remembered the absurdity of wearing ballet slippers in the snow; as if I could challenge all nature.

Somewhere in my mind I told myself defiantly, ‘I will wear delicate slippers at the edge of the grave and I will not be cold’.

And I breathed and time was quickly gone and tomorrow will be Easter, the holiest day of the year. It is 75 degrees at the edge of the grave and I kick lightly at the dirt…with my ballet slippers.

‘In the twinkling of an eye we shall be changed’. The tumbled rocks need to be raked over and fresh grass planted and the tombstone is waiting to be placed. We came and we saw and we went on because there are things to prepare. Easter dinner will soon be waiting and there are rum cakes and mustard honey ham and spiced potatoes and plenty of warm family fellowship.

Because I believe this grave at the top of the hill is so very temporary, I kick with confidence and I shall not wear these ballet slippers again this Easter eve…

The year has turned and there is nothing to be done. The bacon and mushroom omelette was divine and the coffee strong and the sunshine brilliant. The film we saw together at the Little Theater was smooth and the conversation full of wit and sage and hazelnut.

It is a buttercream afternoon with candles and cake. The stove bubbles hot…three burners working to coax pulled chicken, artichoke, chick peas…potato and sausage and white rice.

We relish these sunshine nuances fading from the living room furniture which now sits alone…plump and quiet, awaiting the burst of family energy and guests…looking forward to cake crumbs…and folded napkins.

The candles are lit…the moon is new today. 61 is calm. Time to be in earnest…

10:28am…I hear a mad, rapid fluttering at the reading room window. I suspect the robins are back at it.

I take a final swig of cooling coffee and venture onto the porch with my broom in hand. The porch is lit up with cold sunshine. The chimes are quietly churning in the wind and the window ledge is empty. There is not a twig or piece of nesting detritus in sight.

I look around. Where are they? I stroll to the edge of the porch and lean way over the railing, looking to the right and to the left. Nothing.

It appears they stopped by only to say hello, to flutter happily and with abandon around the edge of the ledge and then…gone as quickly as they came.

I look up and see a steady stream of high flying birds, robins and maybe others…heading into winds in the direction of the tree line opposite the house.

They are off to mourn the cathedral…

April does her thing; a muddy patch here, a small pink hyacinth there. The ground by the edge of the house is moist and beckoning, desiring that some work be done. Upstairs, I open two windows for the first time in months and hang up fresh laundered clothing.

Yes, I have a dryer. I prefer the motion of lifting and hanging and smoothing my hands over the cloth; making sure it is perfect. It takes time. Of course it takes time. But the joy is in the process and it settles my mind.

There is almond coffee with heavy cream and honey, along with cherry cordial cake for breakfast. Later there will be thick slices of potato cheddar chive toast with squares of butter.

This life is too short for bad coffee and plain oatmeal. There will be mornings for that, but not today; not while April does her thing…

We live this April in the midst of what I call outrageous grey, enduring countless days this winter and spring of fog and slate and charcoal and lead and concrete.

I look at my potted dahlias sitting obediently in the window, doing what they have been instructed to do; reach for the sun! Higher!

It states on the package of seeds that dahlias thrive in six to eight hours of direct sunlight. Maybe I shall pour vitamin D drops directly into their soil.

I look tentatively outside at the edges of the porch. I fear being dive bombed by angry robins.

8am. All is quiet out there. I notice one weak strand of nesting material hanging over the lip of the window and white breakfast remains splattered at random all over the dark green arm rests of one of the chairs. Bird salvo.

They’re out there somewhere; hiding in the grey. Perhaps it is just too dank and cold for them to build today. I knock down the nesting strand with my broom and rattle the wind chimes as a call to arms and for double good measure I stomp back into the house and close the door loudly.

Round two…

Palm Sunday afternoon…the robins have waited until today to make their move. My porch is their Canaan, the promised land with a large lipped shelf…a comfortable flat window overhang with plenty of space to build.

No, I say.

Their attack is orderly. Mid morning, there is not a sign of them. By 2pm, they have begun to build in two places. My husband ventures out and removes everything from the porch floor and overhang. Within less than two hours, I look out and discover they are at it again. I stride out with a broom and a bottle of cleaner to clean off the windows. I wipe things down. I hang up chimes and sweep up the porch, lugging heavy Adirondack chairs around.

It is a significant amount of work trying to keep something so small away from us. I turn on the porch light and lock the door firmly and tightly.

Round one…

During the afternoon in Danbury, CT…the massage therapist comes to the house and speaks to me directly in Portuguese and I answer simply ‘Yes’. She feels encouraged to continue and I nod and make some some sense of it, a few words hanging on here and there and quite close to Spanish.

It really doesn’t matter. The two dogs yip and yap and we both smile. The world loves a jumping, joyful canine. I smell lavender and the incense upstairs and she keeps talking and heads off to set up her table. I catch her final words…’Praise God’ in Portuguese and I answer in Spanish and in English.

We’re good. We understand each other from a thousand miles away and a lifetime apart. I quiet the dogs and we settle down; with my book in my lap and her efforts at the table continue upstairs and the rooms are awash in scent…

3pm…I step onto my porch. I notice several of my potted plants and bowls have been knocked over…scattered in all directions. There’s a sort of wild strewn look about the place.

Then I see a large…groundhog is it? What in the world? Lying…snoozing…hiding comfortably under my husband’s chair. The audacity.

I don’t know. It could be a bear for all I care. The bottom line is that I am no longer on the porch. I am no longer in the house…or the neighborhood.

I took the car and disappeared down the road. I called my husband as I drove off to let him know. He is not home yet.

‘Oh’…he responds.

I’m gone. It’s going to be awhile.

A slice of Heaven…is an open window, a comfortable chair…and an excellent book.

I should cherish nothing more than to spend endless hours reading…infinite time to clear my head of clamoring voices…freedom from the base turmoil and mediocrity and spineless compromise to which nations, cultures and ideals sink.

Listless days.

Casual culture, failing urban public education, deception and our own understanding…and we are the lesser for it…

At the corner of Westcombe and Longton, she sits brilliantly in the cold sunshine. She is a small woman dressed in long fuchsia cloth and wearing a small turban. She watches as I drive by. I wave.

She turns her head slowly away from me, unmoved; unmoving.

I think about her as I run errands. I’ve seen her walking slowly along the sidewalk, barely five feet tall; age undetermined. Her face is small, brown and lined. She could be sixty or one hundred. I believe she comes from Nepal.

She stares out and up at the sky at lands I don’t see, winds I don’t feel; the sun at an angle I have never felt. Her face is stone; absorbing with a direct stare the mountains from whence she came.

My face is fluid. I look around mountains, above mountains and beneath mountains.

On my way back from errands, I look again for her but she and her chair are gone. She has left the mountain, the wind, the waning spring sun and the front lawn. She has closed her door against the fishbowl which is suburbia…