Minutes after the front door clicks signaling David’s exit for the day, both dogs beg for morning cheese. They don’t whine, but instead take on a hard to ignore singsong that my foggy brain processes as “treat, treat, treat.” Persistent and persuasive, their summons pulls me out of bed within fifteen minutes of my husband’s departure. Most mornings I unwrap of slice of American for them, but some days I grate sharp Tillamook over their food. Immediately after scarfing down their cheese, they want me to go outside with them.
During the summer months, Koi zips over to the hose and viciously tugs on the end. He combats this imagined demonic snake while I fight against his weight to uncoil his adversary. He continues his attack until my heated command, “Leave it!” pulls him away.
I relax into the sacrament of watering. From potted plants to hanging baskets, to the birdbath and the small pond, I nurture and nourish. The hem of my gown grows wet from castoff and clings around my knees as I meander through the yard. I genuflect to an uncurling new leaf and sprinkle it with blessings. Birdsong and soft morning sunshine waft me into peace.
Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman