COMINGS AND GOINGS

Brief Thoughts About Time

Alison Moore, Writer in Residence

Seasons

The first fly just crawled across this page.

Before any further signs of spring appear, I have only the sun, further along the wall or the left edge of the ridgeline to tell me which end of east the world is coming to. Right now, the sun is setting to the southwest, a direction I always lean toward.

Edging toward the equinox I have no Stonehenge to mark the exact moment when it will occur, but an app on the phone will suffice. At the Solstice, we built the bonfire on the farm, and so for the Vernal Equinox we’ll think of a different way to celebrate the end of the first COVID year, the beginning of another, hopefully shorter one. It’s too soon to burn our masks.

In January, the thermostat on my studio wall was the first thing to catch the light; now, the stove glows shortly after seven in the morning. But that keeps changing, too. Days lengthen, twelve inches of snow shrink to a scrim. Boots get shorter, and I need fewer layers to stay warm. On daily walks along the Clabber I’m closer to the water as the creek stretches its banks right after the melt and the following rain. Before I know it, the stream narrows again. The familiar becomes fluid: even the dogs sleep in new places in the sun until they’re thoroughly baked, then they find the shade has moved further behind the shed, and farther away from the water bowl.

Now you see it, now you don’t. 

Hundreds of cobwebs appear out of nowhere as if the woods themselves wove them overnight; by morning, they’re gone. Or at least appear to be. A friend says only the dew reveals them. I’m as skeptical as a child who was just told that the stars are always up there whether we can see them or not. Still, not even a strand remains as a remnant of such a vast arachnid announcement. It can only mean one thing: Get ready. Bugs are coming.

The sheep were taken away, almost a month ago, returning labeled and packaged. They will become part of us in a different way, at the table. Soon, there will be two new ones to tend to; we’ll need to come up with their names. Flotsam and Jetsam, Hither and Yon, could be contenders. No matter what they’re called, I’ll become attached all over again in no time at all.

One of two nameless roosters is deleted from the coop, giving the hens at least a little rest. On their time off, they lay an average of twenty-one eggs per day: golden brown, pale jade, almost ivory, all fertile. The remaining rooster is only too happy to oblige.

Honest Labor

Seedlings outgrow their pots in the hothouse, the last of the broccoli stalks go to the goats, and onions are planted in newly-tilled ground. I learn to drive what David calls “the former mower,” though to me, it’s a down-sized tractor. In any case, he’s an excellent teacher. I haul mulch in the tow-behind wagon down to the garlic, spreading wet oak leaves the color of old leather between the rows. Next, I take the tractor and wagon to the hay bales that look so much like Nabisco Shredded Wheat, and untangle a roll to outline the perimeter of the beds. After three hours of bending I’m done in—a total dilettante. Today my hamstrings are unstrung.

History Repeats Itself. Again.

I have been time-traveling to 1893 for my Writer in Residence project I’m calling, “A Ghost Returns to Rush.” A character emerges as I begin to write; I’ll call her Willa McGarrah. At the moment, she’s almost twelve. Even though she’s a lot like me, Willa gathers her own story as she goes, surviving the loss of her mother at an early age, finding news of a wider world on the newspaper wallpaper (even if it’s dated), and cultivating a reverence for a particular rock that seems to be eternal in the face of so much change. She is made of equal parts hope and longing, fact and fiction. But she’s real enough, and when I finish the revisions, I will most definitely miss her.

Longevity

We all have to admit it, sooner or later. There is less time than anyone thought. For Donna’s mother, a lifespan of ninety-two years flickers down to days in less than a month; all her daughters gather around her, record her memories in the nick of time.

Even though he has tenure, Zulu, the elder of the farm dogs does not have pancreatitis as previously diagnosed, but most likely  has cancer. Zulu, a true warrior, is more than willing to go for walks in the meantime. David slows down to keep up with him.

It seems to me that presence, showing up, is what we have to give those we love at the end. And it’s no small thing, this kind of love. It is and will be everlasting. Still, we need reminding: even dying stars keep shining long after they’re gone; their light will eventually reach us. 

Rituals

David closes the gate in the evening. In the morning, I’ll open it again. Life goes on. The earth tries to tell us—in any season she’s an orb that spins through space, a faint blue dot, fragile and finite. Take care of her and don’t shit in your nest. Forget about Mars. There is no sequel. Life in all its manifestations is right here at Lucky Star, 92 degrees latitude, seventeen miles from Yellville.