Correspondence

Palm Sunday

On Palm Sunday, I took a walk.  It’s the first day of spring, and the sky is china blue, decorated with small cotton-like puffs of clouds.  Flowers are blooming, and the ducks at the pond have laid their eggs.  The beaver are back—I can tell by the trees they have gnawed down near the pond, though I have yet to see any dams being built.  I stop at a neighbor’s yard to play fetch with his dog, a black retriever called Shadow.  He spots me as I approach and runs for his tennis ball, sitting obediently, waiting for me.  It’s become an almost daily ritual, the kind that can lend life a sort of rhythm, even in these harried times, a familiar companion in these days of isolation.

I look at my watch and decide to ignore the time, something that seems like a luxury, or even a violation of an unspoken ordinance, but somewhere in the recesses of memory, I can look back at a period when days like this seemed endless and time moved more slowly, like a lazy stream, not a cataract in a raging river.  It was a kind of lost Eden, or, with the imposition of experience, seems so, though it was a garden we took for granted at the time, never knowing that there could be some other way, some other place.  In our secret world of childhood, each mind’s eye its own, yet of a piece with the others, growing up seemed distant and dreamlike, far away like the stars in the constellations..

The...

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