Where I Am

For the past two days, a charcoal-gray tabby cat has strolled across the patio in front of the door next to which I sit while I work. Today I managed to get up and open the door before he got out of my field of vision. When I opened the door a crack, he scampered under the front barn and disappeared. Mrs. Orr and I were talking about him last night after I told her about seeing him, and she remarked that he would be welcome if he were a good mouser and could pull his own weight. This morning at about 0400, Bluebelle, she of the keen ears and protective nature, ripped into her “alert” bark and awakened us. I got up and let all the dogs out, but never did see anything. I strongly suspect the cat was the cause of the ruckus, perhaps jumping onto the porch or brushing against a door.

Then a short while ago, on the same concrete patio, a chipmunk skittered up to the door, looked around, and took off for parts unknown. This puzzled me, since I thought those little fellers were in hibernation now. The mild weather of late must have nudged him awake and drawn him up to the surface to see what’s what. I heard a bee buzz the other day when I was outside and the temperature was in the sixties. It made me sad, because I thought, “When that next cold snap comes, your life will end, because you got your hopes up and came out of shelter, little friend.” But the tiny things know what they’re doing and need no counsel from a man who can’t even balance a checkbook.

It’s pleasant to look out this patio door and watch the bare limbs of the weeping willow waving in the wind, and to think that in a few months, those supple sticks will be dotted with tiny green buds, preparing to burst forth into the elegant and slender leaves that adorn the branches in the warm months. I like to walk beneath the tree and hold out my hands and let the green leaves sift through my fingers; it is a happy sensation, as is any contact with living things. Stinkbugs being the notable exception, of course.

When I walk in the fields and woods in the warm months, I pick flowers for little bouquets for Mrs. Orr. I wonder if the flowers feel regret at being plucked up from among their kinfolk, and I wonder if they are pleased to be employed to bring beauty to our home. Of course, I think on the day of my own plucking as it approaches, and I wonder all the things that men have wondered since the beginning, when they know the day is approaching, the day of being removed from this soil and…then what? I have examined myself very closely for a long time and can truthfully say that I do not fear death. I do not relish the idea of severe or prolonged pain, but death itself holds no fear for me. I spend long hours meditating on what might lie beyond this life when I leave it, and I am no longer dogmatic about what I think will happen. Because I have no idea. What I do have is hope, hope that what lies on the other side of that dark river will be good, hope that I will be able to understand things that now confuse me, hope that at least some of my questions will be answered.

But in the meantime, here I am, planted where I have been planted, and lifting my own branches to the sun and listening to the wind, hoping to hear a kind voice on it, and waiting. I am waiting.

~ S.K. Orr