It can be as simple as walking outside and seeing the ladder there, rungs stretching up into the tree.
Or my lapis lazuli earrings. Chatting about Afghan men tromping over and beyond blue boulders on their way to chip off a bit. Stones flying across the world. The ears that wear them today. Hearing only silence.
Arabella. My father’s trophy. The images side by side.
Young eyes entranced by your gifts. You called her gorgeous. And she is. I’ll tell her you said so, one day.
Weedy dragons. Witty children. Opals.
Water. Water. Lovely water.
Me, living in the wild with two little boys. You, raising two girls way out in the bush.
Waving across an ocean.
Smiles about. Meeting those certain ones who turn your life upside down, right from the moment you meet, even if it takes awhile to catch on that, indeed, your life has turned upside down.
Those same certain ones who then turn you right side up.
Make us want to be better.
We each had that; recognized kindred hearts-in-love; our damn good luck.
Love of the wild. The bush. Noise, lots of noise, but no electrical hums, no racing toward deadlines. Peace. Elusive peace.
Mothers the exact same age.
More smiles. A few laments about lonely beds. Feet padding down the hall.
When the article came out last month stating we with European DNA are all descended from ancient Belgians, I laughed out loud — then cried. I wanted to share it with you, make you laugh.
Only silence rings.
I must admit, my friend, dear Badger, I’m glad you no longer have need of warm toast. Nothing in the world pains you, nothing is making you bleed.
I’ve wished you the Happiest of Birthdays for years now. Today (it’s July 13th, now, in Australia), for this particular year, you’d be sent the requisite Beatles tune. The same farewell:
“Love to you and yours, and more to you.”
You are missed.
When hummingbirds buzz by. When deer leap.
Kim Hunter Gamble / July 13, 1952 — February 19, 2016