opposite shore

My dearest, sorry to be scarce today. I have just fixed myself a cup of hot tea and am up in the aerie. Songs are streaming on the radio downstairs. I have been feeling watery today, at low ebb, not verbal. I found my copy of Hugging the Shore, with John Updike's autograph on the first page. Nice handwriting and the dot is directly above the "i." I started to page through it but stopped because on a day that English feels like my 17th language, that feeling can only worsen if I encounter his prose. I love his writing, but when I was young I was cowed by it and it gave me writers block. So I'll just look at the cover for now. The book is sitting on the file cabinet next to me, far away enough that I can imagine that the image on the jacket, a black and white photo from so long ago, is actually of you smiling, seated in that little boat you and your brother restored.

I took a walk this morning, dressed in sea monster colors, moss green fleece and brown denims. I wished you were there beside me. It was pleasant and peaceful, with tonic sounds of running water and of bells, hints of spring. I noticed little meaningful touches that people in this secluded hamlet have placed in their gardens. A lacy black mandala hung from a porch eave. A collection of pretty lanterns was strung in trees. A laughing Buddha sat against one house and a prayerful one at another. Placed in one front yard was a single ornate ceramic object, Indian or Chinese, like a fountain or maybe a lantern - well, I don't know what it was. I think you might have been able to name it. The tag of a freshly planted tree clicked musically against the trunk. Crows cawed and there was birdsong. I walked on the road alongside the creek. The water was grey-green, like seawater. On the opposite shore I saw one white-tailed deer run after another. Echo and Narcissus, I thought, you and me. Bare brown limbs stretched up farther and evergreen fingertips pointed skyward, pointedly.