If I had gray hair, gray eyes, and a gray outfit I'd fit
right into today but the sun shines from my heart.
Saturday, two friends, Winnie and Margaret, along with Mom, Mego and I, went to
Seagrove, North Carolina and looked at pottery.
I was totally unaware that this place existed. I found myself paddling through carefully
placed stone paths--the kind that rock when your foot lands on them and you
think there surely must be rubber balls underneath them plotting your eventual
fall into crannies of weeds and sticks and briars. However, you walk flawlessly into a wooden
country door where dusty pottery lives on dustier shelves. The atmosphere is rustic and
mountain-like. Then there is a real log
cabin.
I stood in the middle of the floor while Margaret read where
the furniture used to be placed and where the stove used to be. The floor was bumpy packed dirt. I knew if somebody would sing, the acoustics
vibrating among log walls would play the sound like a symphony. Standing there in the middle of a room that
once was a home my mind wrote every novel I have ever read about early settlers
in America, written to old Irish ballads that bounced my soul around like the
dancer it always has been.
Then we took Mom to Lexington. I stood at the edge of what used to be
Daddy's garden and as it rained, I could almost hear the phone ringing and his
voice asking me: "Is it raining on
the garden down there?" Yes Daddy,
it has been raining on the garden ever since you left it.
Tonight is a friendly thing capping off the restful
reflections in my ever-speaking memories.
They lie down in gentle thoughts
that trip right over the rubber stoned paths of yesterday.
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