Riversong in Spring
I want to remember it, like this, forever.
Riversong in spring.
In springs gone past the kids have been so little. In arms or toddling, top-heavy, tripping over rocks. But now they’re lean, lithe, agile little climbers, leaping over rocks and hopping stone-to-stone along the shore. Now they name things–skippers, snails, crawdads–poking and prodding, endlessly exploring into the afternoon. Now naptimes are optional. Now they make up games, engage in contests, imagine maritime battles, build dams. Now I sit on a rock, basking and watching, only needed to rescue a lost shoe or mediate a conflict on occasion.
Mom certainly shuffles, but still gets around. We do her laps–nine of them make a mile–while the kids ride the kettlecar and pretend to be cheetahs. Up and down the driveway we walk, so slow I soak in the beauty that would normally be a blur. The purple flowers cropped up so quickly and all the apple blossoms are just barely in bloom. Heidi is on the swing, learning to pump. Just between lap five and six I can see her body begin to get it–swing up, lean back, legs forward; swing down, lean forward, legs back.
“Good job, babygirl!”
She beams.
Jeff (via Twitter & Instagram ) coins the term #Dutchumentary as we listen to the never-ending string of facts flow from Dutch’s mouth. He wanders absent-mindedly out to the yard, wearing socks, with The DK Book of Knowledge in one hand and the Northwest Encyclopedia of Plants and Animals in the other. As we sit on the swing overlooking the river, he breaks the silence with this:
“Mommy, I’m going to tell you something that will take your breath away.”
“Ok.”
“A male northern elephant seal can be up to 20 feet long.”
This takes my breath away, but not for the reason he thinks.
It’s all of it. The rush, rush, song of the river below. Heidi running barefoot through the grass, her impossibly perfect curls bouncing up and down her back. Papa weed-eating the edges. Oma perched somewhere with a book, drinking lemonade. I write this all down not because there’s a moral to the story, but just because I have to.
Because I want to remember it, like this, forever.
Because I sat in front of Shawna’s facebook page today, for a long time. And there she is, alive in her photo, holding her children and laughing. And not to go morbid here, but I want to memorize these moments somehow and remember the sweetness of the sacred mundane.
To drink the sweet of life.
After dinner we trek down to the shore. The sun slowly dips behind the trees. Dutch is fishing with a long stick and Heidi is crouched down, poking in the sand collecting smooth, tiny rocks, holding them tightly in her moist, sandy fists.
Dad stands in his hooded sweatshirt, looking out over the water. The spring-color is best, not the dark-muddy flood-stage of winter nor the murky-green slowness of summer. Spring is icy-clear, swift, with plenty of white-capped rapids. Earlier today I had looked at photos of Dad–as a child building a go-cart, as a twenty-something hotshot, with a cocky Harrison Ford smile, wearing a navy uniform, and as a man, bent over the grave of his own father. Suddenly Dutch shouts over, holding up a leaf on the end of his stick, “Look, Papa! I caught a fish!” Heidi hops up and brings Papa a handful of tiny, sandy pebbles: “Look what I found!” Dad admires the leaf-fish and takes the tiny pebbles in his hand, and the kids go back to their play.
He looks back out at the water.
“The river is just perfect this time of year,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, looking at him. “It is.”
{Savoring Riversong this week. Thanks for reading.}