leavings and twinings

My left arm hugs my middle, against the first morning chill in a long while. The mug in my right hand steams. I stand near our old satellite dish, where beans climb and lush leaves fill varied spaces. The neighbor's apple tree reaches giant arms, shaking off final, fragrant Gravensteins. Sunlight parts shade. Canadian geese gab on wing, commuting west from river to wetland.

An hour ago I picked up Edmund and received my first real hug from him. His gaze so full. His joy. Now he and his parents ride to Portland. Their flight this afternoon, their east coast life resuming.

Near my feet transplanted lupine thrive. California poppies will open later in sunshine. Mexican sunflowers are orange splashes beneath the window. Kiwi leaves entwine behind the clothesline; berry plants arch branching vines toward the gate.

My grandchild's embrace lingering around my neck, I glimpse a remembered view. There's only plain grass, a clothesline, and a hole. Another child, pacifier gratified, watches his daddy, Tim, pouring cement. This boy takes moments to explore the deck boards, to gaze upward and wonder about clouds. At a distance the truck backs in through the gate, the black pole is set in place and the dish erected. He takes it all in.

I pin clothes and chase a puppy and guide the toddling boy away from dangers. Like Edmund's parents, I feed and cuddle and scold and can't ever really pause to hug myself near the backyard dish with my warm mug, at least not before days of do-it-yourself satellite programing have long passed.

My toddling boy has grown up, has found his joy farming south of town, and has given us beans climbing grape vines which climb the apple tree. His nephew plants new memories each moment for my daughter to absorb. She'll ponder them one day, beneath whatever twining vines may rise.