There’s a subdued crimson suggestion of a new day off to the east and I can’t help but wonder what today will bring. It’s yet another pedestrian Monday morning; another chance to make the pieces somehow fit, a seemingly impossible task.
But there’s always that “what if” that keeps us all steadily on track.
I took a nice long stroll yesterday with my wife through a cemetery right near our house. I cherish these walks because they set me straight, keep me sane and burn calories (something my physician loves). It’s quiet and peaceful and my wife and I consider the many folks there our personal friends.
Over the years, they’ve been privy to our most intimate conversations; our quandaries and concerns, our aspirations and clandestine dreams. As we walk and try to somehow figure it all out; this life, this frantic situation we always find ourselves in. Most days, we leave the cemetery with more questions than we came in with making me wonder if that’s the way it’s really supposed to be.
The cemetery is surrounded by water and my wife sees a lone swan off in the distance, floating silently on the water. There’s no breeze and the murky water appears to me as black glass; static and dim, the reflections of indigo sky above screaming of a visual paradox. So much like our lives, I think.
“I wonder where the other one is.” She says.
“The other one?” I ask.
“Yeah, they always travel in pairs. Like us. That’s the way it is with swans.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, “I only see one.”
“Me, too,” She says.
My wife scans the area surrounding the pond and seems sad the swan is alone; an almost bittersweet sentimentality. Our conversation veers off on another relatively impossible tangent as we continue our walk around the winding cemetery road, both of us unconsciously searching for the second swan.