. . . how something returns

and keeps on returning

through a gap,

through a dimensional gate,

through a tear in the veil.

And there it is again.

Another spring.

To woo loss into song.

~ Excerpt from Late March, by Richard Schiffman

Another morning of an aborted walk. Interrupted just as I set off in the rain by my daughter who needed me to run an unexpected errand for her; she needed my help with something. So, I went, and my day changed, and I felt flexible. It rained throughout the day; and there was a chill, and the sky felt a bit oppressively late March gloom. It wasn’t until the late afternoon that I got to go for my swim. It was that time of day when it would have been easy, chilled as I was, so skip it. Too cold, too tired, and a nap was a temptation. But I knew I would only feel better IF I swam. I got to the pool and in the locker room––$#!!++!% I forgot my bathing suit at home. Well, certainly, by this time, it was mighty easy to call the whole thing off. Except I just drove home the 4 minute drive, got my suit and returned and swam my 45 minutes of laps and, certainly, it was exactly what I needed and wanted. Driving home, I met a train on Hospital Road. I had my first chance of the day to snap a photo for my blog. Not a great photo, but a photo to mark the day. I like to see the cars all colorful with graffiti chug by. I overheard a remarkable conversation in the locker room after my swim. A little girl, shoulder length blonde hair, maybe five or six, was changing into her bathing suit, and her young mother kneeled beside her, undressing her. Above their heads, a tv was on, is always on, a news channel. The little girl wanted to know about the war on the tv. The mother tried to explain, in a kind and mature voice that knew she was answering questions impossible to answer adequately for a child, but of course, she had to try. Well, the Russians want to take over the country of the Ukrainians. And the daughter wants to know why the Ukrainians don’t want the Russians to come in. Because, the mother tries, the Ukrainians want their freedom. But why do they want their freedom? The girl would like to know this. I am dressed now, and the little girl is undressed, leaning against her mother. This makes me think of a wonderful Mary Cassatt mother/daughter painting; like, a bathing one. I don’t want to eavesdrop on their intimacy any more. I slip away, trusting the mother will find a way to explain why freedom is something the Ukrainians want so badly they are unwilling to just let the Russians move in.