I live in a community of weather-watchers.
Before the sun stirs and its pale light peers over the trees, they watch. After the barn owl swallows the skin and bones of her midnight meal, they worry. When a trip to town leads to meeting a fellow weather-watcher, they talk. They watch and they worry and they talk about the rain or the heat or the cold. They watch, worry, and talk because they must plan.
Four years, four months, and twelve days … I know, but I don’t keep count. It’s just one of those motionless mornings when the sun’s not yet shining and thoughts spin like a whirlwind before they fall down, tired.
Second grade has been hard on her- making new friends, writing cursive letters, memorizing times-tables. Yet, every Friday she comes home with gold stars and smiley faces on her work. When the morning bell rang the first day she told her teacher that she wanted to be called Belle.
I forgot. I was at a wedding and the thought never came. It always has.
The wedding was fine, as far as weddings go. I was asked to take a picture of two smiling couples standing in front of a big evergreen. It was blurry around the edges, but they nodded: “Yeah, that is great.”