Winding sheets of wind.
I took Fain to the park this morning. September has begun to make itself known. Countless yellow leaves were strewn by the roadsides like dirt-dimmed doubloons along St. Charles. I can't help but think it. But there are no beads in the trees here. Maybe the beaded trees are gone from New Orleans, too.
The weather is calming. I've forgotten how much I enjoy the fall. I've forgotten the way that the wind feels in September - like a worn cotton sheet, cool and clinging. It presses and insinuates and is a seductive force all its own. It is a breath more than any other wind. It is solid and soft and yielding. There is nothing harsh in it.
Fain walked on his own for a while, hands up slightly to balance himself, imitating the feel of mother's hand holding his. He squeals and laughs and intentionally falls just for the novelty of it. He shouts at the ducks, calling them by baby names, attempting to befriend them and then frightening them away. He eats their bread and then tosses some into the water. He seems thrilled by the changed weather, too. After a while, he wants me to hold him and walk with him the way that I did when he was a newborn. He puts his chubby, light arms around my neck and pats my back softly with his tiny hands. He rests his cheek on my shoulder, and I don't want to move because I'm afraid I'll disrupt him. I want him to stay this way forever, loving and gentle and warm. My little safe haven. I could have walked like that forever.
I stopped and spoke to a young boy named Chris who was fishing. He commented on the weather with a smile. He said that he hoped it was so nice all day. A good day to be outside, he said. He said that he lived nearby, that the river ran behind his house, that he loved to go fishing when he had the time. He told me that he'd only caught a fat eel today, but that he thought it was a prank. Eels, he reported to me, don't usually inhabit the lake. I told him that I didn't know eels lived anywhere other than oceans and aquariums. He, ten or so, smiled wisely and nodded his head. He had thought the same thing, he assured me. But he's caught several in the river. Fresh-water eels. I wished him the best of luck. He said bye-bye to the baby. A nice boy. The kind of boy that reminds me of Mayberry, that I wonder at, that I hope will remain so friendly and apparently guileless. The kind of boy that makes the blue skies seem more real and the day seem more like a true holiday.
Just down the path, two men were fishing together and watching over two young, dark-haired children, a boy and a girl. They ooh-ed and ah-ed over Fain, cupped his chubby cheeks in their little hands, smiled for the camera, and talked about ways that we might spend the day - fishing, swimming, playing hide-and-seek. They were disappointed when I said that we'd have to go home to eat lunch. But they waved us off, running behind us for a ways to catch all of the kisses that Fain blew at them.
I felt a profound sense of peace. Maybe only children, sweet children playing innocent games, can restore that to a grown-up who has been watching the news for too many days.
The weather is calming. I've forgotten how much I enjoy the fall. I've forgotten the way that the wind feels in September - like a worn cotton sheet, cool and clinging. It presses and insinuates and is a seductive force all its own. It is a breath more than any other wind. It is solid and soft and yielding. There is nothing harsh in it.
Fain walked on his own for a while, hands up slightly to balance himself, imitating the feel of mother's hand holding his. He squeals and laughs and intentionally falls just for the novelty of it. He shouts at the ducks, calling them by baby names, attempting to befriend them and then frightening them away. He eats their bread and then tosses some into the water. He seems thrilled by the changed weather, too. After a while, he wants me to hold him and walk with him the way that I did when he was a newborn. He puts his chubby, light arms around my neck and pats my back softly with his tiny hands. He rests his cheek on my shoulder, and I don't want to move because I'm afraid I'll disrupt him. I want him to stay this way forever, loving and gentle and warm. My little safe haven. I could have walked like that forever.
I stopped and spoke to a young boy named Chris who was fishing. He commented on the weather with a smile. He said that he hoped it was so nice all day. A good day to be outside, he said. He said that he lived nearby, that the river ran behind his house, that he loved to go fishing when he had the time. He told me that he'd only caught a fat eel today, but that he thought it was a prank. Eels, he reported to me, don't usually inhabit the lake. I told him that I didn't know eels lived anywhere other than oceans and aquariums. He, ten or so, smiled wisely and nodded his head. He had thought the same thing, he assured me. But he's caught several in the river. Fresh-water eels. I wished him the best of luck. He said bye-bye to the baby. A nice boy. The kind of boy that reminds me of Mayberry, that I wonder at, that I hope will remain so friendly and apparently guileless. The kind of boy that makes the blue skies seem more real and the day seem more like a true holiday.
Just down the path, two men were fishing together and watching over two young, dark-haired children, a boy and a girl. They ooh-ed and ah-ed over Fain, cupped his chubby cheeks in their little hands, smiled for the camera, and talked about ways that we might spend the day - fishing, swimming, playing hide-and-seek. They were disappointed when I said that we'd have to go home to eat lunch. But they waved us off, running behind us for a ways to catch all of the kisses that Fain blew at them.
I felt a profound sense of peace. Maybe only children, sweet children playing innocent games, can restore that to a grown-up who has been watching the news for too many days.
posted by Autumn at 1:35 PM
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