I’d begun to dread the aftermath of my elderly neighbor’s passing months before he died. He’d been a quiet presence in the farmhouse down the road, a generous steward of the 120 acres where he had lived since childhood.
It is two days after Thanksgiving. Old Tacoma, my Tacoma, is draped loosely in a low-hanging mist. My boyfriend, Kevin, and I – determined to work off at least a few calories of unfettered holiday indulgence – have embarked on a semi-brisk walk toward Ruston Way.
I arrived at 11:55 a.m. But according to military time, I was late. Exhausted children were already napping. Wives with new hairdos fidgeted.
My first impulse was to turn away.
We stand in the crisp night air, our breath forming billowing wreaths around us, before drifting slowly away. This reminds me of time – gossamer, intangible, something that cannot be held onto.
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Community Columnists · 2013
Community Columnists · 2012
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