In-between

Dear Kate,

Saying goodbye is not for the faint of heart.

Yesterday was Labor Day, the last day of summer as I felt it, though more warm days are to come I am sure.  Kids going back to school, a new rhythm, time to settle down and settle in the longer and deeper nights, pumpkin pies to give thanks for, something heavy to weigh you down, wrap you up, close you in, Santa Claus the final human ideal.

Saturday was mostly rainy, a good perspective to what we are about to lose, but just a tad of it, enough to make the point, not enough to cause despair, a common grace that never feels trite.

I was wandering aimlessly in the city yesterday, knowing that if I were to stay home something would be aiming at me every corner I wander to.  (Sure enough I mowed the lawn, balanced the cheques, vacuumed top to bottom, and wrestled with Brueggemann right after I got home.)  I bought myself something.

Retailers like to remind us of the change of season, and I appreciate that.  Profit motive they have, and aren't we all, if motivated at all, by something profitable, meaningful, welcoming and ultimately hopeful about our tomorrows?  We make beautiful things as a token of our trust, a stone thrown into eternity, trusting eternity is only a stone's throw away.  Sometimes the stone is a diamond, sometimes a mere stone waiting to be polished, most will be left unvarnished, undiscovered, belongings we possessed but never made belonged.

I got myself a "utility sherpa-lined vest," of my favorite brand, and before going to the cashier I touched the seams.  Someone with good hands was working on it.  I checked the features highlighted for me on a tag, discovered more that called my attention to themselves.  The angel is in the details.

A vest is good for me.  I love jackets, but don't wear them much: I got hot and troubled too often.  So a vest is good, and if sherpa-lined would keep me warm enough for what's to come, always alive to how summer was only yesterday and could very well be tomorrow, all over again in no warmed-over fashion, a flower opening to me, urgently, for the first time.

These in-between days...(and I am not going to finish this sentence.)

Yours, Alex