Saturday Notebook / by Christina Rosalie

The autumnal bird migrations have begun, and last night we watched them fly across the golden sky, each bird a small winged fleck of gratitude. I am alive. Yet my heart aches at the loss, and at the wonderment of my own self preservation. Like Penelope, I keep returning to the spool of memory, unraveling each moment of terror again and again. The mistaken stitches of “what if” tangle the tapestry of these moments.

I breathe. I sleep. I carry the loss of life and injury in a fragile compartment next to my heart, each moment grateful, each moment heartbroken. And then I remember to be right here.

No farther than this moment with birds spiraling up into the evening sky. No farther than their flight of air and feathers, silhouettes against the bright balloons of hedonists, drinking the good beauty of the day drawing to a close.

Then I breathe again. I breath in air sweet with drying hay, and leaves turning hue. Again I am learning how to bow at the alter of the moment. Again I am learning that now is all I have.