Over the Bridge & Under the Moon

This weekend, my friend C. came to visit from the Lonestar State and charged me with taking him somewhere in Georgia he'd never been. And though a well-traveled fellow, this charge really only eliminated spending the day in Atlanta. Instead, we drove up 441, winding up into north Georgia between hills burnished deep orange and coppery brown by the late-arriving fall. The sun was glorious in the sky overhead - a crisp blue that would be cold to the touch, scattered with breaths of cloud.

We wandered through the woods along a narrow path, following the blue smudged arrows on the sides of pines, oaks and birches that marked the High Bluff Trail. There was only the crunch of thousands of leaves under our feet, the slow rustle of a slight breeze in the trees, and the calls of whatever birds were out to enjoy the fall day to punctuate our sentences. It was easy to be in the forest, in the low sloping hills, among clumps of green moss and clusters of mustard-yellow mushrooms.

But later, we hiked down into the gorge, down hundreds of stairs that wound down between rock walls. Down to where the water poured from the gullet of the walls into a river that ran over smooth flats stones in swirling eddies and quick whorls. As we descended we could hear the water churning against gravity, and we were pulled down, too, to where a suspension bridge crossed the river - the only way to get to the observation deck for the falls.

I said I couldn't, but C. didn't understand that bridges are not an inconvenience but a terror. Not a dislike but a panic. He never gave me the option to not go. So I closed my eyes and held his hand and took a step out onto the wooden slats held in the air by thick wire cables. I could feel the vibrations of the bridge under my weight; I could feel the blood in my ears. I could feel my fingertips pressing hard against my eyelids; I could feel a hand in my sweaty hand and I squeezed it tightly, focused on that hand to lead me to the other side.

***

Later, back at my house, I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers on my bed. It's only the third time I've slept there, and I crawled between the sheet in a familiar bed set in a still strange landscape. I clicked off the bedside lamp and lay there in the darkness for a moment, keenly attuned to the sounds of the hardwood floors settling. To the heat hissing through the vents. To the weird way that the grate on the carport door sometimes twangs. Straining to categorize every sound, it took me a moment to realize that cool, silvery light had slipped across my face and fanned out across the blankets. I turned onto my stomach and peeked through the blinds. There, high above my house, gazing down into my bedroom window was my beloved moon. After all this time...so many months...it was only then that I discovered my old friend looked in my window, just as he has all my life.

Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Sunshine

Oil Spill (Kids' Edition)

Tonight, while serving dinner at the homeless shelter, one of the kids came up to me and asked me my name. "I'm Ashley," I said. "What's your name?" He told me he was Caleb, that he was 7 and that his birthday is August 8, 2003. Charming, right?

Five minutes later he ran up to me, his hands cupped around an imaginary substance. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"No," I said. "What is it?"

"It's oil," he shouted. And then he proceeded to throw it on me, pull his invisible flame-thrower off his back and shower me with fire. "I just set you on fire!" he declared gleefully. "You're burning!"

Um, are you seven? Yes. Yes, you are. Am I disturbed? Yes. Yes, I am.

With a Little Help from My Friends

More than eight months ago, I bought a house. What started out as a euphoric step forward, an amazing accomplishment, metamorphosed into a disastrous albatross around my neck just weeks later. Kudzu fell ill, and suddenly, life was on hold until he recovered. But he never did. The weeks ticked past, marked by visits to the vet hospital and a winding road of tests and treatments that all failed to be the bright feathered hope we sought. Instead, he went to rest in peace, and I found myself residing in a world of shambles.

A ghost of myself after his passing, the thought of moving seemed a cruel and inhumane expectation. To take a leap of faith without my boon companion hardly seemed possible. Not then. Not for the foreseeable future.

The heat of the summer descended, oppressive and stagnant. I muddled through the days of heavy air and stifling temperatures. I checked the mail. I made lists of things to do that I never checked off. I made excuses. I dodged people I knew would ask too many questions. I proposed move-in dates that came and went as the summer waxed on toward the fall.

But the air cooled, and something inside me felt less dead. Something inside me felt less like the world had ended forever, and that bright feathered hope that never came for Kudzu came for me. And I started moving things. Slowly. One thing at a time. Boxes. Pictures. Books. I unpacked and found places for things. I stocked the shelves of the stubrary. I bought a comforter set for the guest room. And suddenly, it started looking less like a disastrous albatross and more like somewhere to land when the dust settled.

This weekend, I spent the first night in my house. But I didn't do it alone. There were the email chains between girlfriends in which they cheered me onward. There were the tasks my parents stepped in to help me with - finishing touches on Thursday. And there were the dear sweet people who came to visit, who gave me a reason to be in my house for the first time.

I will treasure this picture forever. For the support they gave me. For the affirmation they delivered that the house was, in fact, coming along swimmingly. For the laughter that filled its walls while they were there. For the hugs that comforted my faltering moments. For the sheer force of love that gave me the courage to take a step toward tomorrow when it seems like yesterday will never let me go.

There is so much to be mourned still. For what I lost. For the beloved friend who is gone. But there is much to be celebrated. The goodness of those in my life who believe in me, who champion me, who were willing to shack up on my couch and give me a reason to stay.