That's All She Grilled

I’m racking up the “last times” on a daily basis now. For a year they have been seasonal: last unbearably hot summer (hooray), last time to clean out the summer garden, last year-end exhaustion at work, last snowfall in the cemetery (that one turned out to be two winters ago, when I didn’t know it was the last one), last fire in the fireplace, last thrill of the early spring garden emergence followed by the opening of the summer flowers (yes, there will be other gardens, but not just like this one). The last

dinner with friends around my coffee table in the hearth room (that one hurts), last bluebells and spring star flower. Last grape tomatoes (that may turn out not to be true, there are some green ones with a week and a half to go, along with several tiny yellow squash that may or may not mature in time for me). Last summer annual planting (for the new owners). Was Saturday the last time I will rise early to lean on a gravestone as the full moon makes way for sunrise that splits the sky as the new day dawns? Was the thunderstorm a few days ago, the last one from my bedroom under the eaves?

On and on it goes, like a reverse bucket list; not a pail full of things I hope to empty as I accomplish them for the first time, but one that I am filling with things to which I have grown accustomed and am experiencing for the last time.

I have probably mentioned the blueberry scone I have purchased at The Fresh Market every week for the past 12 years, to enjoy with my weekly cafe coffee and journaling

time. Every week, that is, except for the several months they stopped carrying them because "they weren't rising right." During that year, I learned to make them myself and got a pretty close clone; but I was glad when they suddenly returned. Two weeks ago TFM brought in an imposter, a small puff thing. The FM scone was on my list of things I knew I was going to have to say goodbye to. But I expected to know it was the last one.

Last weekend I traveled to Asheville to visit my family. I stopped at Montreat campground and walked back into #29, my favorite campsite, for the last time. I went on to Max, Kristy, and Nicholas' lovely site on the side of a mountain outside of Weaverville. I hope I will visit their home again, but I will arrive by plane and it will be a major vacation.

Nearly 6-year-old Max, who was a newborn when I first met him there, read to me the book I made him for Christmas. He is a much- improved baseball and soccer player than he was just a year ago. He is waiting for his baby brother to be born. As am I, before I head west. Maybe I will return to #29 someday; maybe Max will join me there, perhaps Ethan, too--which was always my plan in the years I camped at Montreat. Some plans don't bear fruit.

Friday evening I fire up the grill I got five years ago when I moved into the house at 609 Edmund Street. One person doesn’t use much propane (or at least I don't), and it still has the original tank. Twelve days from moving out, I’m cleaning out the freezer and put the last burger on the grill. Just as it finishes cooking, the tank runs out of gas. (I didn’t make that up.) A few weeks ago the spring on my eight-year-old clippers broke when it got caught in my well-used leather glove, tearing a small hole; and last week, as I trimmed a tree through my upstairs window, the pruners got stuck in full extension. I neither asked for nor needed affirmation for my journey, but apparently the Universe wants to make darn sure I know it's the right thing. Maybe the One Who is More knows as the time draws ever nearer that I have to say goodbye to my friends as I extend my self, I might doubt my decision.

I attended the memorial service of a dear man yesterday, whose 58-year-old body caved to a mean-spirited cancer in just a few short months. Nothing can claim John's spirit, however, as evidenced by the large gathering of those he touched. Going to the ends of earth to show their love--though their 33 years of commitment outlasted 58% of heterosexual marriages with or without the formality of societal-sanctioned marriage--John and Steve proclaimed their commitment first in a private ceremony, then within the love of their faith community when Pullen Baptist Church voted to perform same-gender unions. Later they traveled to Vermont for a civil union, and more recently to California finally to be married. I’m almost sorry John lived to see what must have been a huge sadness as the majority of North Carolina voters told them their love was not worthy or real. This quote has been in my blog notes for a long time, I don't know who said it, but it makes me aware of Steve's life going forward--of all our lives really, as we say goodbye to that which we have loved-- “dying doesn’t end the story; it transforms it.”

Sometimes we don't know we are experiencing something for the last time. Simple things like a favorite pastry to which we have grown accustomed, or snow in the cemetery. Like an ordinary dinner with the great love of your life just before you learn the body of one is harboring a killer. Maybe it's easier when we don't know. And maybe it's a lesson in the importance of really savoring in the moment all the experiences that bring us joy. I am not taking for granted this beautiful May morning outdoors at the cafe, a cool breeze bringing whispering movement to the trees; a jet cutting through the sky before disappearing into the wild blue yonder carrying passengers on some adventure, its stream mimicking the wisps of clouds. I am not ignoring the curly-haired toddler being introduced to another patron's Great Dane, Stella. I let the Little Brown Bird take a rather large chunk of my Harris Teeter scone (which is the right shape and texture, but tastes a little like a pop-tart), just so I can smile at its delight in the unexpected good fortune.

This one day, this one experience, this one life. It's what we have for sure.

"Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished."
-Mary Oliver