This afternoon I pulled into the parking lot at Bald Pate Preserve and heard my phone ring. I’ve never quite mastered the art of the swipe to answer and so as usual missed responding immediately. But . . . I put the car into park, or so I thought, and then tried to return the call to our youngest in Colorado. As I dialed, or rather, pushed the phone icon and listened to it dial and ring, I heard the phone ringing in another part of the truck. What in the world? A ventriloquist phone? And then I opened the cubby between the front seats and discovered my husband’s phone. And saw that our youngest was trying to reach him. Meanwhile, I felt like I was in motion. Because I was. The truck was in neutral rather than park and I was almost to the middle of the parking lot before I applied the brake. Somehow, I managed to make the call. After we chatted for a few minutes, with concern and wisdom, he asked, “Mom, are you hiking alone? Should you be?” “Yes,” I responded. “I’ll be fine. There are other cars here so I’m sure I’ll see people.” To be honest, though, I hoped I wouldn’t. This was one day when I needed to just be.

I needed to wander among the red maples

and red oaks that graced the sky.

I needed to embrace the subtle coloration of sarsaparilla

and vibrant hues of blueberries.

I needed to admire the veins that bring nourishment to trees

and all that live therein.

I needed to observe life giving forces

and the differences among kin.

I needed to pause at each overlook

where the view offered up life’s changes.

I needed to say farewell

as I looked toward the beyond.

For you, Brother Bill, I needed to walk the trails today and lift up your  life which ended unexpectedly this morning. I trust that you’ll be forever in my heart and going forth will travel with me as I wonder and wander. I trust you’ll watch over me and help me understand the great beyond. May you rest in peace, big brother.