Late in the Day

It is late in the day and I am curled in my sun-faded hammock writing these words to you. I want to fold this paper neatly into segments and send it to you in a letter. I want you to hold it in your hands, your lips moving slightly as you read, your eyes traversing the page, my handwriting as alive as my voice.

The redwoods are molting—rust-colored needles drop with abandon; the laurels sway fragrantly holding the memory of bay nuts fattening on their many-leafed limbs. This is its own kind of music.

It rained a few nights ago for the first time in months and I awakened to the sound: this gift, this relief. Lifted from sleep, I stood outside in the dark under the hastening drops, my face upturned like the yarrow blooming quietly at my side. Hidden, the crescent moon hung above, the scent of oregano and dust and the newness of water; the air charged with something unnameable.

Sometimes I have no idea what I am doing or why I feel so wildly alone. For those few minutes as I stood in the dark with the wind and possibility, I was certain, I was held, I was there, like the rain falling and the constellations blazing above the cover of clouds, completely obscured from my view.

‘We are right here’, you whispered in the language of wet and of wonder. ‘I know,’ I replied, with my small smile, my open palms, my bare feet.

The next day I will sit in a thicket of coyote brush so heavy with bees it is dizzying. The hum will consume me entirely, the perfume heady-sweet and redolent of the golden hills. I will hear soft, steady voices issuing from the caves in the ancient rocks nearby, and the secret symphony of whale-song carried on the coastal breeze. I will find one puddle, a small muddy pool, and I will splash in it. I will laugh and remember the rain. I will send you these words in this letter and carry you here to me.