Wanting

This early spring, I stretched to the far side of my memory,

Stalking riches:  the pure gold of so many moments that life has given me;

The uncanny, dazzling opportunities that I never saw coming in my Kansas growing up.

And I fell into a loneliness, a grief, a longing so sharp I couldn’t swallow.

I wanted back in my green pencil skirt at Gettysburg

I wanted to walk for the first time ever into the Interior Building, knowing I belonged.

I wanted the improbable moment at Dulles when Bob welcomed a ride home.

I wanted oysters on the half shell and a Manhattan, the sweet comfort of a Saturday night stretched along his lap, hearing Bernard DeVoto lead us cross country.

I wanted the beginnings of a new job, the shivery amalgam of fear and confidence;

And the rush of telling preservation stories.

I wanted Ian Tyson summoning love.

And then Rodney singing joy.

I wanted to drive five hours to the North Fork and know that Dave would be alone, working in the meadow, impatient to see me.

I wanted the ferry ride to Patmos and the vaporetto trip around Venice and Carrara’s marble canyons and London’s improbable Underground.

I wanted to meet these mountains again as new friends and to see the Big Sky’s incomparable blue for the first time, the limitless home to which I now belonged.

Foolishly, futilely I wanted. . . .

I traded gratitude for grief

And melancholy.

And the dense weight of age.

Where once the world had leaned down and stretched its hours out and lovingly placed the next adventure into my arms,

Now I hear the doors to times past, to new geographies, to changing careers snick shut quietly and firmly.

Except, of course, we know the answer—at least on sunny days:

We are never without the treasure chest of this moment.

And if, as is the truth, the next exploits are more ethereal, more emotional, more intimate, they remain new territory.  Unexplored. Rugged. Singular.

Literally life and death. ©