I’m nervous about being on a river. I don’t know what to
expect, as I’ve had some trauma being near water since Jack’s accident. Our
family used to love to be outdoors and did a lot of hiking near creeks and
rivers, but if this river looks anything
like a creek, I don’t know if I can handle it.
Stepping into the cottage, I see the view out the big back
windows. Beautiful, calm water for as far as I can see. A sloping green lawn
reaches down to a tiny sandy beach, maybe 8 feet wide, and the Potomac River
laps soundlessly onto the sand. There are no woods, rushing water, or sheer
drop offs here. It looks more like the ocean than a river, and I am not afraid.
I take off my shoes and head out into the grass, greeted by
a small yellow lab. When I look up, I see a man, maybe a decade older than I
am, sitting on a metal glider, enjoying a cigar. I pet the dog and then walk
over to meet the man, who lives in town but comes to his cottage on “The Rivah”
each evening to relax.
If this were a horror movie, I’d tell him I’m staying here
alone to write a book, then he’d come back a few hours later, maniacal Jack
Nicholson smile on his face, to do me in.
If this were a novel, the dog, smelling Shadow on me, would
keep coming over from his lawn to mine, until the man invited me over for a
beer and then, well, you know. We’d find out his wife has left him and I was
recently widowed (sorry, Tim) and the healing power of the river and the bald
eagle family overhead would bring us together.
But this is neither a horror movie nor a novel, so I go
inside and watch a Duck Dynasty Marathon, wondering if I’m good enough and
strong enough to write a book. I wonder if breaking into my friend’s unopened
box of Thin Mints is poor form. I wonder if the words “Sharing Size” on my bag
of M&M’s represent a command or merely a suggestion. I fall asleep on the couch.
I write on and off the next day few days and fantasize about our
family having a small place like this to spend quiet Christmases or go
crabbing in the summer. I realize I am only picturing three of us, not Jack. Would it work, or would it be too quiet for Margaret? Would we always have
to invite a friend along? I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this will work, our
future in a fictional riverside cottage or elsewhere, but in this brief moment, it doesn’t feel horrible to think about.
And that is something.
Love and Peace to you this Friday. I’m off to celebrate the life
of my grandma, who lived into her 90’s and passed away peacefully while I was
at the river house. I’m picturing her having a joyful reunion with her son
Charles and her great-grandson Jack today.
