Every morning, my phone alarm pulls me awake at 7:15. I don’t linger in bed. Instead, I puton my clothes tossed onto the floor the night before and head outside to hand water both yards. This ritual sets the pace of my day. I may chat with my neighbor who has a similar routine. Most days I use the time to create a mental “TO DO” list.
In the past, our dogs loved looping through the yard with me. Koi often grabbed the hose to battle it’s snake-like threat. Bridget would zoom through the backyard, black lightning that zipped in circles around my legs. I miss them the most when I head to the swing under our tree, book in hand. I long to see Bridget flipped onto her back, dancing against the ground. I listen for Koi’s yip to pull me inside when it gets too warm outside. Bridget’s loss, so long ago, has sharpened now that Koi’s gone.
Since January, my ability to hold onto any kind of optimism diminishes daily. I have started counting the losses that chip away at my life, the lives and livelihoods of friends and family, and our country’s democracy. I no longer feel safe if I venture out of our neighborhood. We’ve created a security bubble that snugs us into the same shops and restaurants and avoid interacting with people who still defend the monstrous, inhumane acts of this administration.
I fear, too, talking to anyone who voted for Trump. Will they still defend the madness that’s whipping through our country? Will they conjure up excuses? Will they state that this IS what they really want? I don’t think I can risk another round of losses right now. Some friendships, that I’ve cautiously and carefully nurtured back after the January 6, 2021 attack on the Capitol won’t survive another hit. I have no desire to give anyone another chance if they support this current drive to destroy our Constitution.
Instead of risking confrontations while I’m at a low point, I decided to do a major project in the back yard. With shovels, rakes, and determination, we removed vines from the spot where our cats are buried, and kneeling near their graves, my losses added up. I hefted the top soil bags into the area, dumped them and spread the dirt with my hands, intentionally ignoring my gardening gloves. My spade hollowed out spots for Mexican Heather and Fox Tale Ferns. Sweat dripped down my glasses, but I toiled until every plant found it’s new home. I robbed rocks from other spots in our yard, ringing this new garden with hope.
Maybe by next summer, instead of counting losses, I’ll be celebrating growth and optimism again.
Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
