Comings and goings

They flapped a clamor like rain drumming on my roof. The day is sunny and bright. Overhead, a gigantic thundercloud of blackbirds shadowed the sky in annual migration.

I like to imagine these are the same blackbirds I see gathering in the wheat fields around Havre in September, eating grain, preparing for the 2,500 mile flight south. I will see these flocks daily until spring, moving between feeding grounds in the valley and night perches in the hills.

Jim was here with his 95-year old mother, Juanita, for a week. He wanted her to see this part of the country he loves. We all fell in love with this delightful woman.

One day, while she and I sat in the Plaza, another wrinkled woman, one I see frequently in town, a woman near the same age as Juanita, walked over and lay her hand on Juanita’s shoulder. The two women, mirror images, leaned, round heads face to face and congratulated one another on such a long life, gabbling back and forth, each in her own language, no barrier to understanding.

Juanita said she knew she would never have another chance for such a trip. She tires easily but she is sharp as a tack and loves to tell her stories. She paused in the middle of one such story, obviously frustrated. “Oh,” she shook her head. “Sometimes words forget me.”

She is back in St. Louis. We told Jim he could go home and leave his mother here. But, I know we wore her out and she is glad to be home, in her own bed. Jim plans to return in January, depending on his mother’s health, of course.

The same day Jim and Juanita boarded an outbound plane, Pat and Nancie arrived from Sedro Woolley, Washington and Julie flew in from the Twin Cities. We are wearing paths through the grass between casitas, visiting, welcoming.

Crin has been here three weeks. She leaves in a few days. Single women, living across the road from one another, we often share a meal. Crin will return in February for a longer stay, perhaps a couple months. I will miss her. Everyone else here is partnered up.

If I could, I would send you my crop of avocados and iguanas. My tree is large and loaded. I began eating from it in August and it still drops several a day. By the end of its crop, I do not care if I ever see another avocado. I pick dropped avocados off the ground in the morning and hike them over to the neighbors in rotation, every other day keeping one for myself.

Iguanas? They love avocados and chomp all but the seed. Often I see or hear a fat iguana, belly full, slip and fall from the tree, mouth full of pulp. My flowers are safe from foraging, for now.

Today my great-granddaughter, Kyla, the baby, is in the hospital in Billings for a bone-marrow test. If I could, I would take unto myself the entire family pain. Instead I have my own helplessness, my confusion, my questions, my anger.

If I could I would flap wings like a blackbird, fly against the cold and snow and bitter winter winds, and like a fairy godmother or a witch, who cares which, wave my magic wand and make life sparkle.

Which one of us would not do likewise for those we love? But that is fantasy.

Why does it take pain to motivate me to do something I know is good? I get lazy, break the good habit. Last week I began anew, beginning anew, dedicating the first hour of morning to meditation. The first hour. If I set any different time, I set up myself to fail.

The first hour, as the sun is rising, is for me, for you, for all my children. Maybe I cannot make anything different or better. But I can find ease for my own heart. Who knows? Life is a Great Mystery.

After meditation, I drink my morning coffee, pick avocados, dead-head geraniums, mop my floor, watch blackbirds, walk across the little dirt road and visit a neighbor. Some days I go to the Plaza.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].