And through the bare fields calling goes,

“Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!

Within your close brown wrapper stir!

Come out and show your silver fur!

Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”

~ Excerpt from “Pussy Willow,” By Annie Douglas (Green) Robinson

I made a mistake. I wanted to cross the trestle bridge, for the first time in months, to cross the meadow and see if the pussy willows that grow in the wetlands there are in bloom. Charlie and Suzi and I had a great time tromping the river’s edge along the wetlands on the other side. The meadow grass was all brown and stamped down. A few tree branches had buds. Mostly, there was blue sky and no breeze. No pussy willows. We headed home. But Charlie had a panic attack on the way back over the trestle. Charlie! Confident, curious, enthusiastic Charlie, who has never troubled himself about the trestle before couldn’t cross home after me and Suzi! Oh dear. Now I had Charlie on one side, and deaf Suzi on the other, and poor Charlie wouldn’t even come for a cookie. I called my daughter to see if she might have to pick us up from the road if I couldn’t get Charlie across. She suggested I just keep walking and walking as if I was heading home and see if he’d just follow. So, that’s what Suzi and I did. We started walking home without poor Charlie. I called and called, and finally, finally, he got his nerve back and followed us home, got his cookie, and cheered right up. Well, that’s the last time we’ll do that! Then, I met my daughter in the yard. I went to see if my pussy willow tree was in bloom in my yard, and yes. After all that, yes, it was in bloom in my yard. Oh, Monday. I wrote a poem from the letters, brought it tonight, and it was very well received. And yet, tonight, such horror in the news. Such horror. Impossible to digest. Two mass shootings in our country in a week. Impossible to digest.