Passing Through

The first sound I heard this morning was the honking of the wild geese. I stood on the deck in bare feet, ignoring the cold. I watched them as they flew south along Mill Creek in their haphazard formation until they disappeared. They were just passing through.

When I got to the Creek House yesterday I was greeted by a layer of dust. There were carefully wrapped packets of unidentifiable foods in the refrigerator and some molded bread on the counter. It has been a couple of months since I found the time to get here. I cleared the dust. Cleaned the refrigerator. Even though I will only be here one day, I am a nester and I must have a tidy nest, even though I am just passing through.

The last time I talked to Aunt Kate she told me how anxious she was to get home. She was worried about her nest. She wanted to clean and cook and dust and do all the things I do to delude myself that there is permanence about my life. When I bury a bulb or plant a tree I am promising myself that I will be here to pick the flower or the fruit. The truth is I am may be making promises I can’t keep. Someone else may pick that fruit after I am gone. I am just passing through