An old woman in a tie dyed dress, I walk on Wendover Circle.  Rain drops plip plop on my head from the overhanging trees.  A big cold drop runs down my face and hangs on the end of my nose, tickling.  My wet hair’s plastered to my head too, but I don’t care.  I love the smell of earth and sky after a good night’s rain.   

Walking alone, I listen to my own inner voice accompanied by the ambient sounds on the ridge; peepers pulsing in the ravine, the savage cry of a lone hawk circling overhead, and the occasional report of a distant gun in the valley.  I hear the gurgle of an unseen river racing under the street and wonder how long it will take last night’s rain to make its way back to the ocean.  

 

I remember how Tommy, Esther and I used to dam the rain water racing by the curb in front of the old house on Atlanta Road, sailing paper boats on our engineered lakes, whooping and stomping, laughing and splashing, while rain drops ran down our faces in tiny, trickling rivulets.  As children, we were so joyfully alive, delighting only in the present moment.

Living in the present moment is the gift of youthful innocence.  As an old woman, I seem to chase moments as they vanish faster and faster into the irretrievable and irremediable past.  

My life has become memoir and memoir, my life.  C'est la vie.