There's a man and a woman and a dog living in an old grey van down by the river. The van runs but it's parked always in the same place when I leave work and when I return in the morning.
Seagulls come inland when a storm front crashes into the coast lands, long thin stilletto wings carving curves in the sky. I can see them bracing and swirling in the wind.
I remember last year's December, all the hopes bundled into my little car on our way to the coffeehouse we'd opened a month before, hopes, and some firewood to take the chill out of the air because the heaters took a while, and the clean rags, and any other last-minute supplies remembered in the early morning.
The ride was four miles and seemed to take forever in the cold, we'd ride with the windows down because the defroster wouldn't work half the time and we could hear the doppler effect of the buzzing streetlights as we travelled past dark storefronts and warehouses, hotels and gas stations, early enough to see the school buses warming their engines and checking their lights in the bus parking lot. Early and dark, and that's how I remember last December, some wistfulness mixed with worry, business decisions and bills.
And I think even then we knew it wouldn't make it, but there's always a little hope in December, some hibernating soft thing, eyes closed and tail wrapped around for warmth. We survived the winter but not the summer, and the relief I feel at the absence of stress is tempered with a sense of futility. There was nothing we could have done. We did it not on a shoelace but on the little plastic cap on the end of the shoelace, and then the location changed when some state budget cut took effect and the alley that went past our place became known as the homeless highway. We did what we could, and we followed through with our lease but it was the hardest thing we've done, ever.
It was harder than moving into my uncle's 10 x 12 foot pump house until we found jobs, harder than losing those jobs within the year, harder than living in our little 19-foot travel-trailer for two years in the big woods. And I think about where I am now with happiness, because doing those hard things taught me to roll with the punches. Sometimes the path we travel heads straight into the wilderness. Life is about more than survival, but sometimes we are reduced to adaptability and capability of coping with very base elements. But there must always be hope. Without hope we have nothing.
The sea birds had all landed in the grassy field beside the river, and took to the air again in wild sweeps as the man started his grey van and drove away. I know they'll be back, like the birds weathering the storm, but I know some day they'll fly away and have someplace to go.
Seagulls come inland when a storm front crashes into the coast lands, long thin stilletto wings carving curves in the sky. I can see them bracing and swirling in the wind.
I remember last year's December, all the hopes bundled into my little car on our way to the coffeehouse we'd opened a month before, hopes, and some firewood to take the chill out of the air because the heaters took a while, and the clean rags, and any other last-minute supplies remembered in the early morning.
The ride was four miles and seemed to take forever in the cold, we'd ride with the windows down because the defroster wouldn't work half the time and we could hear the doppler effect of the buzzing streetlights as we travelled past dark storefronts and warehouses, hotels and gas stations, early enough to see the school buses warming their engines and checking their lights in the bus parking lot. Early and dark, and that's how I remember last December, some wistfulness mixed with worry, business decisions and bills.
And I think even then we knew it wouldn't make it, but there's always a little hope in December, some hibernating soft thing, eyes closed and tail wrapped around for warmth. We survived the winter but not the summer, and the relief I feel at the absence of stress is tempered with a sense of futility. There was nothing we could have done. We did it not on a shoelace but on the little plastic cap on the end of the shoelace, and then the location changed when some state budget cut took effect and the alley that went past our place became known as the homeless highway. We did what we could, and we followed through with our lease but it was the hardest thing we've done, ever.
It was harder than moving into my uncle's 10 x 12 foot pump house until we found jobs, harder than losing those jobs within the year, harder than living in our little 19-foot travel-trailer for two years in the big woods. And I think about where I am now with happiness, because doing those hard things taught me to roll with the punches. Sometimes the path we travel heads straight into the wilderness. Life is about more than survival, but sometimes we are reduced to adaptability and capability of coping with very base elements. But there must always be hope. Without hope we have nothing.
The sea birds had all landed in the grassy field beside the river, and took to the air again in wild sweeps as the man started his grey van and drove away. I know they'll be back, like the birds weathering the storm, but I know some day they'll fly away and have someplace to go.
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