Rain pouring from a darkening sky. I lifted a pot of purple tulips from the pitted concrete, disturbing a massive coil of earthworms sheltering beneath the heavy foil surrounding the pot. And people think these creatures have no brains. They were drowning in the grass and soil nearby. Still, I didn’t want them beneath John’s tulips, so I fetched a whisk broom from the car and sent them flying back into the soggy lawn of the cemetery. Then I emptied the foil of water and set the tulips back down. They haven’t bloomed yet. Waiting for the sun, I suppose.
It’s been a year since John died. A whole year, and my heart is still broken. I walked the trails four times in January. For the first time in forty years, I thought I might not run again. The rain doesn’t help, the gray days don’t help, fewer endorphins don’t help. But yesterday I drove to the park, put on my raincoat and John’s trail hat, and set off for the campground, now closed and therefore empty. And I heard this voice in my head say, “’Bout time.”
The campground loop is about half a mile, covered in fir needles, with a few downed branches, a couple of tipped-over trees, and puddles everywhere. The kinglets and chickadees and juncos have yet to come, but the eagles are soaring overhead, calling to each other, courting in the windy skies. I walk the loop ten times, and then take a muddy trail from the campground to the bluff. The high tide and higher-than-usual waves are pushing driftwood into the shifting soil at the juncture of the land and the water. Scientists warn the island residents that the bluff is unstable.
Change is inevitable.