Good Blood, Bad Blood

“How long must we live to learn how to survive?”

Jhumpa Lahiri from Roman Stories  

March chores. I rake leaves. I pick up broken branches from January’s storms. I gather the debris for composting. Crocuses peek out from under the white bark birch. I rest for a bit. I drag out the tiller. I turn the soil in my wildflower beds. The same beds where I put my cat to rest in December.

The first robins appear. They delight in the heady roughed up earth. It’s abundant with bugs and worms. Song sparrows visit the bird bath. They drink, then, take a dip in the murky water. Their splashing wets the river rock beneath the laurels. They depart. I scour the stagnant film in the concrete bowl. I haul the garden hoses from the shed. I wash the tiller. I refresh the water. Spring is here.

I made it through the winter. My friend, Peter, did not. I spoke and sang about him a month ago. MVA: SUV versus scooter. Broken legs, arm, pelvis, fractured vertebrae, loss of spleen, and too numerous to count contusions and abrasions. At first, there was hope. Peter had the heart of a lion.

But the slow reveal of his challenges unnerved me. I stuffed one item after another into the soft luggage of my worries. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to get to work checking off the problems to be solved. Surely, all that was needed was a list and an agenda. I was going to sing him songs and help him heal with comedy.

The Mr. Fix It in me, however, soon became the Mr. Wait and Worry. Visitations were restricted. There was little for any of his many friends to do. Platitudes of support echoed among us. Each moment of optimism was drowned by two of pessimism. Then, infections overran his damaged body. His heart weakened. He passed on the second of March, three and a half weeks after the accident. His wife and immediate family were present at the end.

I’d known Peter for more than 50 years. But, I had not seen him much in the last 45. Life took us in different directions. Recently, we reconnected through social media. He had reached out to me when there was turmoil in my world. We shared poetry and music. The art of others served to communicate our feelings for one another. A temporary connection until we could be together again. A reunion that will not now happen.

We first met in the Shangri-La that was Wawona in Yosemite National Park during the 1970s. We loved the same trails and cared for the same remarkable women. We played together in a legendary Jug Band. We shared an affection for two cats named Zeus and Peanut Butter, mythic felines from the days of yore. This was in a world that no longer exists. One before smart phones, before the University of Google, and before television had 300 channels. All these things that bombard 21^st Century consciousness were non-existent not that long ago. Now, like Peter, those days are relegated to memory.

Life is random, capricious. It’s chaotic. We can wish it were not, but it is. Life is finite. Friends, acquaintances, and family suffer accidents. A stranger makes a mistake and a life is lost. Bad things happen to good people.

*******

I walk in the woods near my home. The ferns and blackberries have buds. There is evidence of rebirth even though chlorophyll has not yet infused the foliage. My faith abides in nature. I bear witness to its predictable cycles. No matter what, the bracken will green up, the trees will leaf out, and bees will become drunk with the pollen of flowers.

And, there will be chores. Perhaps, though, chore is the wrong word. Spring rewards me with tasks. They settle me. Without trying, I meditate as I rake leaves. I’m surrounded by birds who have found their voice, which was quieted by the stern rebuke of winter. It’s time to play in the dirt. It’s time again to sing.

Now, a song in memory of Peter.