The week is over. We got all the work done. Now we rest.
He’s out there building the campfire. His girl is breaking little sticks for tinder. The dogs keep bringing them the ball. She throws like a girl. He winds up like a Yankees pitcher and it flies over the trees way up high.
He kneels down and sets a log against another like a tee-pee. Leaves start to crackle and a little smoldering of smoke rises slowly, carefully.
The women in the house were cooking all afternoon. We have tons of vegies, salsas, salads, dressings, breads, he even makes cheese for us. And the cold goat’s milk ain’t half bad either.
They put some kabobs on the grill, and he stands there turning them. She’s over at the table, setting up things neatly, all in order, pretty colors, the umbrella is blocking the bits of sand and particles in the air from the fire.
The old man is sitting over by the big rocks listening to the water trickle into the bottom of the pond. His boots are old and funky, wrinkled and bleached. His legs are crossed at his ankles and he leans back in his chair and takes a long drag on his pipe. And holds it.
There is pain and there is pain and who can say who has it or how much. Maybe it’s the ones of us that refuse the crutches that complain too much. To shade our eyes, from all that is harsh, and brutal.
At night, like this, the crickets and grasshoppers make such a racket. The yard feels like a fishbowl and everyone is watching us. Little reflective eyes pop in and out, smells are bringing them.
The old woman comes out, sits down hard, and adjusts her skirt. Her feet are cracked in places, funny neglected feet of two colors. They have walked ten thousand miles in this lifetime and will be ready to walk ten thousand more, when called upon. She takes the rag from her head and the sweat collected on her brow is wiped away.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wipe away all the fear, all the panic, so easily. Wouldn’t it be nice?