blog, garden, Pat Aitcheson writes

Numbered days

Skitterphoto via pixabay

I feel like a cool writer today.
I’m sitting outside under a parasol with a cool drink and my laptop, listening to birdsong and the faint hum of traffic. It’s surprising how easily you learn to tune out some sounds, leaving more room to hear cawing crows and squawking nestlings.

When we look back, these are the days we remember. The patchwork greens of spring burst with life and Demeter’s promise renewed, warm sun on my legs and a soft breeze stirring the pages of my book.

My daughter spends the day inside, hunched over her laptop. She refuses my call to come and sit out, to enjoy the sun, to simply be. She’s certain there are many more opportunities waiting for her. She doesn’t see the point, because the wi-fi signal is better inside and the sun is slanting in through the windows just the same.

It’s not the same.

I remember a scene from The Simpsons, with young Homer pulling hairs from his comb. Plenty more where they came from, he says, and we laugh because we know what he does not, yet.

The future is not promised and all our days are numbered, whether that number is large or small.

So I allow myself to enjoy a fine day like this, storing it up in memory. It’s a blessing to live it now and will be a future joy to relive it with a smile. I will turn it over in my mind like a smooth water worn pebble, warming my heart, hearing only birdsong.