I am writing this preamble because it’s a place my mind can organize. It’s a preparatory place for a new relationship with Nature. She’s worked tirelessly these several months to engulf herself in thickets of greenery in order to cover her scars. What you’ll see is a voluptuous emerald façade for those who don’t know what lies beneath.
I used to call myself a writer – even a poet. Except I haven’t written a poetic line since September 2024, when a friend was swallowed up by our raging creek and carried away. His two grand kids watched from the bank. I didn’t know him personally, but it was personal none-the-less. You might ask why I didn’t write about it? Because the story is too fragile to be used as fodder.
Friends will gather soon, to reunite for old-time’s sake. We’re each hoping others will show up, because it’s necessary we all get counted-in. The first of the group to arrive tiptoes into conversation to assess the tenor of grief, or who might have been most damaged. Off-the-cuff comments are especially tenuous now. It’s tricky to address a group that has been defenseless for so long. To use humor as bonding is way too soon right now.
Tomorrow I will sit on the covered porch, on a bright and mild September day, closely companioned by the sixty-foot silver maple that took us through the torrent one year earlier—all of it, swaying toward the house in ferocious frenzy, then settling back in quietude.
Jean Cassidy jeancass@gmail.com September 25, 2025
