verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Monday, August 16, 2010

Hey Mere


I have my shades on because I can't quite take this all in. You caught me in the kitchen this morning--it looked like I was crying about my banana and yogurt blender storm, but then you stopped and noticed, and then you cried too (silly kid).  I can't quite believe that this week has arrived although I know we both saw it coming in plain view.  Remember when it was always a long ways off?

We've knocked around the house for the last eighteen years.  Sometimes those knocks were more like booms, and other times they were like tiny whispers.  And somehow, to our mutual delight and occasional horror, we went to school together--every school you ever attended, and every day. Thank goodness we could laugh about that.

It's not easy being the baby of the family.  You got left behind a few times.  Where's Meredith? someone would ask.  Silence, followed by a gasp, followed by a frantic rush as we quickly scrambled to pick you up from wherever we had inadvertently stranded you.  Back-to-school shopping for you always started in the hand-me-down pile.  As a baby, you slept on the fly. Or we simply didn't let you sleep.  You were making your own sandwiches by the time you were three.  One day we noticed you could drive.

Our family changed shape right when you were old enough to understand the significance of shapes and their changes.  Some shapes and some changes were harder than others. Being the youngest, you watched from the front door or your bedroom window as everyone else moved out and on with their lives.  Once, you looked at me and said that it seemed to you as though everyone had up and left, that the house was empty, that you missed having them home so much, so so much. You were left here to keep on keeping on, making this house a home, making your family still a family. 

And yet, just look at you, darlin', all grown up and smart and beautiful.  This time it's your turn to head out the door and holy cow, you are so ready. You stagger me with your confidence and poise!  Your bags are packed and the hours are ticking by.  But listen--I'm not coming to school with you this time--this will be have to be your adventure.  This shaping change of yours is one we all notice and feel deeply.  You, the baby of the family, leave an enormous echo, as only the youngest can.  You unknowingly launch us all on a new adventure while we still keep on keeping on, and making this family still a family. Silence, followed by a gasp, followed by a tear or two or three, followed by an enormous hug....

Be on your way.  Shine.  Be here now, darlin', wherever you go.


Sunday, August 8, 2010

Threshold Thirty One

I arrived and Paul was in the fields, mowing.  Harris was in the kitchen.  A large vase of dancing,  handpicked flowers waved from the table.  And the birds are back...

Harris was laughing, her eyes sparkled.  Paul wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled at her when she wasn't looking.  Bellows appeared for the fireplace. And the greenhouse was at long last open to the summer breeze. And Diane's echo....

Tools in boxes awaited their places on the wood worker's table and shelves.  Man-Town, he called it while she giggled. The barn floated on lady's mantle, its doors opened wide. And horses and chickens will soon be back...

Thirty-one, your threshold beams.  Hopeful feet step across into a worn, ready nest.   The pegs hold hats, again.  The twinkly tin light still chirps hello.  The sink is full of freshly cut greens. Pictures hang from those stoic nails on storied walls. And a faith-filled friend is back.....