I sit working at my kitchen counter, mulling over a pile of mail in front of me. Last weeks’ vacation is now a memory, and I’m struggling to fall in sync with everyday life. Outside, the clouds hang heavy and dark over the massive oak tree that sits in the open field across the street. They have threatened rain all day, but instead they brood overhead for a while longer.
Until a few days ago, I enjoyed watching the birds dart among the branches and listening to their songs float on the air. Today, I notice a silence. Their talk has been replaced by the dull roar of trucks dumping dirt in large, red mounds that mar the peaceful green of the clearing. The dirt is pushed around by a tractor, and the frequent dinging of the backup warning is only slightly muffled by the closed window.
The soil looks out of place like it belongs on a baseball field – rusty and heavy. Unexpected memories flood my thoughts, and I’m taken back in time to days when my sons were young and the after-school hours were consumed with baseball practices and uniforms were stained orange from heroic slides into second base or diving catches behind home plate.
For a moment, I am sad. An emptiness remains in my soul where those days of motherhood once resided. The sadness quickly passes, and a smile replaces it. The sound of boy chatter rises up in my ears, and the sweet, sweaty smell of them fills my nostrils in spite of their absence. The ghosts of a life that once was linger around me for a few brief moments, and then they dissipate into thin air.
The dinging of the tractor brings me back to the kitchen and my mail. Perhaps there will be more of those days if or when my grand kids come along. Until then, I’ll look forward to a visit with my oldest son this weekend and the adventure of a new photo expedition next month. Life is in constant motion, me with it, but oh the places a pile of red dirt can take you!