Back from the West. I had to the leave the bay, the roses with blooms as big as saucers, hedges filled with white and yellow wild iris and roses and purple blooms I didn't recognize. And my growing, full-blooming family so full of life.
Here's to Life!
Even the mist has its own sort of life. It wafts and rolls in from the sea in all the shades of greys and whites. It blankets Angel Island and the shores of Tiburon where I am. It rolls up the hill with the stealth of a thief, covering the grass, invading the tree tops and speckling moisture as it moves on up the hillside.
Sitting on the verandah, watching the bay and its bridges, the ships and the sail boats, I thought of all the people who live there, all the aqua life, all the living breathing creatures that make this beautiful place their home.
The Bay Bridge was shrouded in fog that day with only its peaks peeking through the cloud. The sounds of ships horns rumbled through the mist, thier bow waves white and disappearing into the grey-white, wet air.
Ships like phantoms, like ghosts of the present. Alive.
And as I sank into my world of spectres and yesterdays, Tuck let out a shriek, hurtled around the side of the house brandishing a bat three sizes too big for him. He's three and a half. A sturdy, boisterous rambunctious toddler with flaming red hair. My grandson. Alive and well. In his own world of baby thoughts and wonders. I look at his face sometimes and wonder what's churning behind those bright eyes. He's burst into this brand new world and he has things to do. I wonder what they are. What has he come here to do? Will he change the world? Will he fight for what he believes in? Will he make people laugh, and will he fall in love one day...
So much to do. So much life ahead of him, so many days and nights to fill.
But right now he's stopped in his tracks, his bat is forgotten as he squats beside a rock bed. He's watching a beetle.
Here's to Life, my friends.
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