273

Today, 274 days, he is more of the world than of me. Today he belongs to us all. And forever more he’ll be more his own that he ever will be mine again. 273 days he grew inside my womb and now the scales tip to the world, to the earth, to the ways of men.

But the ways of women and the ways of the reed grass, the songbirds, the deep water trout will move with you, Julian Loren. The early yellowing ash and the shallow black dirt held up Angle clay. It’s your cement. Your founding earth. It stands for the good, hard work of decent people. The crowded table of family love. The imperfect world of wanting more than there is to have. This garden is all yours, my sweet boy. Share it the way I now have to share you.

Be you. Have yours. But please, my brown haired boy, always be a little bit mine.

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Sweet Sucker Punch

Without a weekly newspaper deadline, I’ve had little desire to sit at my computer and write these past two months. The sun is shining. The grass is green. The lake is warm. And we’ve been doing what people do when all those stars align.

No, I haven’t missed writing.

A Fond Farewell

This column is one I didn’t want to write, so I’ll keep it brief (haha) and get it out of the way this week instead of next.

I’ve never been good at Goodbye’s. Sometimes I skip them altogether. But writing this column meant too much to me to not say a few words.