There is the wood and there are the leaves. Such a beautiful poignant summer, waiting for news, wandering in a forest of fears and little shadows.
Carelessly, without thinking, really thinking as in awareness and considered choice, I began searching for my missing sister and brother on the Internet, all over the place, advanced or refined or chancy searches. Nothing. They are not to be found and when I stood up from my desk, the holes were as deep in me as graves. I want to know they are well, happy, alive, perhaps ready to try again. But they are nowhere to be found. I fell asleep last night thinking of children led into a dark forest and who had only a trail of white bread crumbs to follow back home. The moon behind clouds and when they tried to find their way back — the children abandoned by their parents who had no food to feed them — the birds had eaten the crumbs and there was no path back to the known and familiar.
I should not let my mind be hijacked by the thousand-and-one subtle and treacherous promises of the Internet —
But oddly, as if in compensation, an old acquaintance, a man I knew when he was 23, popped up on social media and there was a friending of sorts. How many of us will walk one another home across the airy distances of the Internet?
The housemate calling again to find out the elusive results, bracing herself for more visits to specialists, hard or complicated choices. We make toast and coffee, chat in sleepy morning voices, the sun spills into the kitchen, there are birds calling from trees. The elder, the English hawthorn in its froth of green and coppery leaves, the pin oak, the gingko, the tipuana, the Halleria, the yellowwood, the loquat, the olive, the flowering catalpa.
From gardener-poet Sarah Maguire’s Almost the Equinox: