Bookends

Spring in Wisconsin feels like a prolonged repeat of fall, but it smells like wet earth rather than woodsmoke.  The smoke smell is there too, only it’s receding to the background.  I open the blinds in the morning and see two pudgy robins chasing each other through a tangle of gray branches, and I know winter is over.  Fog lingers over the ground instead of snow and green is sprouting in the lawn next door.  I sip spiced tea and stare over my open notebook at the wet rooftops.  Fall and spring are bookends that resemble each other.

I begin reading Natalie Goldberg, to get some new thoughts: We lived; our moments are important. I remember I still haven’t commented on the memoir my brother sent me.  Our moments are important.  I have to remember, to respond and with my response say, “Yes, your moments are important.  Tell us more about them.”

Back to Goldberg:  This is what it is to be a writer; to be the carrier of details that make up history, to care about the orange booths in the coffee shop in Owatonna.

I have to stop soon and make coffee. The oven beeps to signal it’s preheated.  The door rattles open and shut as Jeremy slides the bacon in.  We’ll eat eggs and bacon and drink coffee because he’s home, because it’s a Thursday morning, because we love bacon and eggs and coffee together.

There is no season for bacon and eggs. They are all seasons.