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Comfort

For ten, straight days, the temperature is fifteen degrees above average. The sun shines without respite. Evenings approach one hundred degrees, and, overnight, heat lounges by the exit but refuses to leave. In the mornings, there is no dew on the grass, which becomes more and more like its namesake: flinty blades that stab at Santiago’s paws. Icons predicting rain pop up on my weather app then disappear hour after hour, day after day, like mirages in a desert. The atmosphere toggles between uncomfortable and debilitating.

Santi and I go walking at sunrise. One morning, as we crest a hill between a church and a wood, clear sky above us and the day warming, we see a hen and her chicks, foraging. I tug Santiago closer to me. The hen hurries for the cover of trees, and the poults follow, but two stragglers circle in confusion at the sunny edge of the wood, vibrating like wind-up toys. That is when a tom bolts from the shady understory beside us and charges.

“No!” I shout as ferociously as I can, and it comes out like a scream because my voice is high. I scatter mental files, looking for instructions on what to do when attacked by a turkey, but I cannot find anything. Santi is quiet. He does not bark and does not chase, but he spins and watches the turkey each time it advances, standing his ground.

And so we dance, the three of us. My shouts are a kind of ululation, and each time the tom rushes, Santi and I pirouette to face him, thrusting our own chests forward until he halts, beginning, then, again, in a kind of cha cha cha, all of us progressing, retreating, sidling, twirling, in time, together. When the turkey is satisfied with the performance, he wanders back to the wood. Santiago and I remain strolling across a hillside of dormant grass and bright, magenta clover. I look down at the dog.

“You had fun, didn’t you?” I say, and I smile.

That old tom was probably just cranky from the heat.

I sleep fitfully. The day’s warmth collects in the master bed room, under the roof, pressing from every side as if the walls were moving in. I try the guest bedroom in the basement, but the air conditioner roars and the room becomes too cold. Some evenings, I open windows, hoping that the moon’s breath will offer respite from the swelter, but summer sounds distract me–sirens and firecrackers and late-night traffic–so that I fidget atop the bedspread, punching my pillow, trying to get comfortable. One night, I lie down on the floor of the study in front of the wan breath of a vent. I dream of gardens. Night after night, I dream of tending gardens.

Every other day, I water the yard. It takes an hour or two. I have never had to water so much. Plants that were, until spring, housed in profound shade are wilted, crimped and yellowed. They miss the oak next door that, like two others that used to overhang my yard, was taken down for disease. Rotting branches no longer clatter down upon my car, but in the mornings, when the sun knocks at it, my front door is blistering to the touch. That same, hot sun, coupled with a creeping drought, has caused the white cedar that veils the living room windows to develop a hunch, its lower branches drooping to the ground, its upper branches folded down across the top of it, like strands of hair combed over a balding pate. The potted herbs on the deck are thirsty every day, the ferns are browning, and the violets have gone limp. The rhododendrons show hints of fall color. It is not yet the middle of June.

And yet, the prairie that I planted in a small plot of unfettered sunshine is blooming. There are vivid orange butterfly weed blossoms and wands of purple prairie clover and coreopsis like bouquets of yellow smiley faces. The pumpkin sprouts, too, have become fistfuls of large, happy leaves. I have been trying to grow pumpkins on my tiny acreage since I moved here more than a decade ago. I have not yet succeeded.

The weather is a reminder that expectations are not always fulfilled, that what is within our control is very slight, that it amounts mainly to the ability, in all circumstances, to welcome present joy and to hope for good to come.

On the hottest days, I pack water for Santiago and me. I watch for his tongue: for how quickly it parts his muzzle and how low it dangles in search of a cooling breeze. We hike in the woods and are favored with shade but challenged by steep hills and biting flies. At a pond, we encounter a painted turtle nesting in the sand, as still as a stone, and squirrels fighting so fiercely in the underbrush that one comes flying onto the footpath, squealing. The heat is hard on everyone. When Santi stops to roll in the grass–when he refuses to walk any farther but refuses, also, to head for the car–I join him. I lie down on that spiky carpet–ever drier and more decrepit–and watch dragonflies with striped wings dashing in every direction in the blue sky above my face. The dog lies on his belly, legs stretched before him, and pants. He rolls again. There is a loud squawking, and both of us turn our heads as a dozen mallard drakes rise from a stream, an eagle flying behind them like a collie herding sheep. We watch the flurry; we watch the settling. Joggers pass, smiling at us. I close my eyes. Santi rolls.

We do not need to walk. We are in the presence of all that is alive.

The heat does what it does. On the roads, drivers speed, pass in turn lanes, shout swear words out their open windows. Parks are profusely littered. I, too, am bad-tempered and muddled and tired. I can no longer walk from the beginning to the end of an idea without wanting to lie down and sleep. For two days, I turn off my phone. I do not consult it about the temperature or news of the world or what my friends are doing. I read a book. I do a crossword puzzle. I thumb a little, leather atlas and look up a word in a clothbound dictionary. I speak only to Santiago.

And for hours, I sit under a ceiling fan, pasting photos into a family scrapbook. Its genealogy begins in the eighteenth century. As I sort and cut and glue and caption, I think on famines escaped, oceans crossed, taunts rejoindered, on war and poverty, innovation and love. I remember craggy faces and rosy cheeks and laughs that burbled from the mouths of old aunties and uncles and grandparents, remember hugs that I enjoyed against those bosoms, pennies that I received for no good reason, meals of pancakes and shucked corn and cold milk that we shared, often in the summer, in a dusty land, under a hot sun.

To endure–to understand that one’s own life arises from and will be carried on in the bodies of other beings–is a great comfort.

When the heat breaks, Santiago and I park early in the morning beside railroad tracks. The sun is rising. Crows stand in the rail yard as black tank cars filled with oil trundle past. The cool, dry air feels like fall, like the start of something new. We are giddy. We run. The land along the trail is covered with June whites–ox-eye daisy and yarrow and tall stands of clover–and rabbits are grazing around every bend. A breeze blows, and the cottonwood leaves scintillate in the sun. On one side of a hill, a baseball field has been watered overnight. On the other, a stagnant pond shows a ragged hem of soil around its banks. There is smog over the city skyline: a pale, gray filth like dirt on a window that I ache to wipe away. The pandemic doesn’t seem to have changed us.

One morning, as I stand in the front yard with a trickling hose, I watch a robin pecking among the prairie smoke in the garden. She hops around, neck bobbing, then flies off with a bit of grub in her beak, landing in a small elm above a maidenhair fern. As I work, she does, too, flying back and forth, feeding her young. In the back yard, a house finch is standing in the bird bath. She cheeps at me. The water has evaporated overnight–or been drunk by alley cats and squirrels; the bath welcomes all comers. I spray the tray clean and refill it. I am gentle. In the bowl underneath the bath, a spider is tending two egg sacks.

They comfort me: the birds and the spider–and the rabbits who continue to knock over my fencing and eat the wood phlox. I have created this place for them and they have found it.

Others find this place, too. The heat has tempered, and Santi and I sit on the deck with friends we’ve not seen for a year and a half, sharing a bottle of rosé and a plate of cheese and a semifreddo that won’t thaw. A mosquito makes an appearance. We watch the sun sink behind maples and pines and chimney stacks. One day, my parents come for lunch. I put a tape recorder in front of them and ask them to tell me stories. Another farmers’ market opens for the season, a friend and I dine out, and prickly lawns are spread with wedding receptions and graduation parties. Santiago runs across the street to see Sweetie and is invited inside the fence to play.

Bare faces everywhere: it lifts the spirit to see them.

Seventeen days after the heat wave began and twenty-four days since the last measurable rain, the sky is filled with clouds. They are gray like pewter, and the air is soft and weighted. Santiago and I are walking beside a lake filled with lily pads when the rain begins. Droplets splash atop the surface with a sound like a hush, creating thin circles that spread toward a stand of cattails, toward the open water, toward us. We stand on the bank and watch. The soil at our feet becomes freckled with dark, wet spots.

It is a tremulous rain. We walk with it for an hour, but our skin is not damp beneath our clothes, our fur. It is hard not to be anxious. But this morning rain is like a greeting card on a gift wrapped in paper and bows. In the afternoon, more is revealed: a second downpour wets everything, even under the trees. And in the evening, it comes again, rain, this time, with thunder, and water pours down the trunks of the trees, leaving thick, black streaks along the bark.

Santiago leaves the bed, where he has been sleeping. He is troubled by the rattling of the heavens. He comes to sit beside me and be comforted.

To see photos of joy in a dry land, visit the gallery.

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Abundance

A week before the end of May, summer begins. In the late morning, it is nearly 70ºF, and the air is damp and heavy, weighted with the scent of blossoming crabapples and lilacs and a sharp, green note of mown grass. For the first time in months, my legs don’t itch. Santiago and I are at a large suburban park. As we follow lakeshore and tramp through woods on a wiggling loop of a trail, warm weather motifs present themselves. I see my first hummingbird of the season, darting across a sundial planted in the ground then shooting up into a just-leafed sapling. On a narrow path, Santi tugs me past branches that wet my shirt with lingering overnight rain as a chipmunk scurries in the understory. When I bend to retrieve poop that the dog has deposited, I encounter a toad as black and brown as the weathered leaves upon which he rests, nearly invisible. Beside a dock, a great blue heron stands as still as an anchor in the water then lifts into the sky as we pass, her hunched back and snaking neck like something ancient and sacred.

Humans, too, are in their summer poses. Two men are unpacking fishing gear on a bridge. As Santiago and I cross, making our way to a wishbone of land in the middle of the lake, one of the men–gray-haired and burly–turns from his bags and buckets and squints at Santi. When we near, he bends over and takes the dog by the jowls.

“Nobody gives you love, do they? No, they don’t. They don’t love you enough. It’s terrible,” he says.

The man baby-talks and scratches Santi about the ears, and Santi sashays and wags his tail.

On the island, near the shore where lake breezes will cool them, two women in yoga clothes are doing downward dog. They are mirroring each other, their rumps in the air forming a miniature mountain range. A recording narrates their next moves. We follow two mothers pushing strollers to the end of the island. As Santiago noses for ducks among the reeds, high, childish voices can be heard wondering aloud if they are wearing the right kind of underwear. Moments later, squeals of delight skip across the ripples formed around chubby legs wading in the water. We pass women talking softly in the shade of a picnic shelter and a man nestled in beach grass, a pole in the water. When we return to the mainland, the fisherman’s companion–wearing dark sunglasses under an ice cream whip of white hair–roots around in a sack and gives Santiago a treat. Santi lies down on the bridge, then, and refuses to leave, begging for more. I have to pull him away with both hands.

It is hot. The humidity makes it so. Santi’s tongue hangs from his mouth, and my skin is sticky with perspiration. I want to stop walking–earlier than we would if it were cool–to take Santiago to the car, to ease into this warm weather activity. I want to leave him with the windows rolled down and go into the park building and order an iced coffee and a cup of water. But Santi has more enthusiasm than caution. He has not yet smelled all the smells that are capering in this place, and he resists moving toward the parking lot. So we stroll up to the building and sit outside on a bench beneath an awning and breathe the air.

The world is filled with pairs of women, and two more approach us. One uses a walker. Her hair is ashen, and she seems uncertain behind her glasses. The other has a ponytail that bounces and eyes that crinkle into smiles. They are both wearing masks. They sit down on a bench next to ours. Santiago stands up and greets them, heedlessly weaving himself around the walker, searching for hands to lick and faces to sniff. The woman with the ponytail crinkles her eyes. She encourages the woman with the walker to pet the dog. The woman does, and her shoulders fall. We exchange names, and the women offer to sit with Santiago and breathe the air while I buy cold drinks. When I return with a cup in each hand, Santi licks the condensation from the lid of my coffee. I hurry him to the car to pour his water into a bowl. The women thank me for sharing him.

Summer is like this: a season in which we become visible to one another, and shed our uncertainty, and share.

The yard seems to have flourished overnight. Tiny shoots are suddenly six inches tall and elbowing at their neighbors. Another oak tree on the street has come down, and the morning sun is now ardent with plants accustomed to more gentle love-making; their leaves go limp until the shade touches them in the afternoon. The Kentucky coffee trees–such late-bloomers that a previous neighbor mistook them one spring for dead–leaf out at last, and monarchs begin visiting the prairie garden, flitting from butterfly weed to butterfly weed. The nannyberry blooms with little, white bridal bouquets, and bumblebees buzz loudly as they tuck into purple poms of Virginia waterleaf. Star of Bethlehem that appeared along the garden walk several years ago twinkles in the sunlit mornings, and the first yellow blooms of wood sorrel appear beside tiny, clover-like leaves.

With abundance comes duty. Though Santiago harried from under the front stoop a nesting rabbit some weeks ago, young bunnies nonetheless make their way to the yard. They eat first through slender arms of columbine, then, after I wrap those plants with plastic fencing, through flowering lavender-hued wood phlox. I wrap those, too, until I run out of fencing. It is all right. I am not planting gardens. I am creating habitat: a place for rabbits to live with bees and butterflies.

The honeysuckle has grown, as it does every year, into a small asteroid that threatens to roll through the house. I prune it and sweep up yellow strings of oak catkins that make me sneeze. Meanwhile, samaras fall from a neighboring silver maple like a plague of locusts. They litter the lawn. They are in every pot of herbs and jammed between the slats of the deck. They are under the windshield wipers of my car, in my hair and in my bra, and lying in a fat layer on top of the roof and gutters. They crunch beneath my feet. When I cross the yard or sit on the deck, I am pelted on the head, the back, the arm with seeds. Trees attempt to generate themselves in bowls of yogurt, in glasses of wine. The sweeping will continue for a month. It is a fair price to pay for shade.

Santiago lies in the sun as I work. He is limp like the plants, eyes closed, black back heating like coals, happy. A friend who is a landscaper texts that he is dead-heading flowers at a private residence. With his hands, with his sweat, he sees what others have acquired. I collect branches, pods, winged seeds, catkins–all the gifts of my shadowy places–and offer them to neighbors whose yard is gifted mainly with light. They add the mixture to their compost bin and give me pumpkin sprouts that have come up there. I plant the sprouts among my prairie clover, and water them, and hope. In the evening, I open my front door to find a bottle of blooming peonies left for me on the stoop.

For a short time, summer runs away. I gather all the herbs to the sunniest side of the deck and drape them with a shower curtain each night. The tetchy plants get hauled back into the house: the lemon tree, the ficus, the hibiscus, the tomato plant. I get a worried email from the farmer who manages my CSA, sharing with subscribers the plan to cover crops as, for three nights, temperatures fall into the thirties.

They are beautiful days. In the mornings, the electric fireplace makes quick work of the chill. In the afternoons, open windows let in air that is as light and sweet as cotton candy. I eat my meals on the deck, in slippers or bare feet, watching finches at the bird feeder. Santiago and I take long walks. The milkweed is already high and beginning to form beads of flowers. Beaches that were submerged in the spring sport soft, dry sand and are scattered with smooth driftwood. Salsify and wild rose and wood lupine are blooming, and grackles swoop from tree to tree in a green, young wood, their iridescent plumage glinting. We wander city streets, too, looking at smokestacks and steeples and old, brick libraries, and buying spicy burritos and licorice chip ice cream. In the nights, I get leg cramps.

And then an all-day rain falls, as generous as summer.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I am at my sister’s house, with my parents. It is cool. June bugs and caterpillars sidle across the sidewalks. There are six of us, and a pan full of brats, and for hours our laughter carries out the windows and into the corn fields. It has been nearly a year since I have seen so many people I love in one place.

Not long afterward, summer returns. She is visible on the horizon for several days, walking toward us, whistling. I water the yard to prepare for her arrival. That night, I turn on the air conditioning, and the next morning, Santiago and I are walking beside a lake. It will not be this cool again for a week, not even overnight. Where a road is blocked for construction, an eagle circles a motionless yellow crane that reaches above the trees. Joggers and bikers pass silently, as if fearful of the impending heat. Mallards sun themselves on boat docks, and a deer watches us from a little stand of trees, and the fleabane along the path is the same shade of pink as the sunlight icing the far shore. Wood ducklings skitter across a pond, peeping, as Santiago catches sight of them and lunges. At the beach, the wind off the waves is as pleasant as a dream, and a child’s toy lies abandoned in the sand.

It is perfect morning.

We hit a record high that day: 97º F. I draw every shade in the house. I turn on fans. By evening, the AC can no longer maintain the programmed temperature. Santiago and I sleep on top of the bed, without blankets. Every hour, I awake and blink at the clock, uncomfortable. I cry into my pillow, regretful about the world that I am sharing with generations to come.

In the days ahead, the temperatures will be even more punishing. Summer will unpack her humidity. And when Santiago lingers on a boardwalk, sniffing at a muskrat in the duckweed beneath; when a stranger in a convertible brakes to introduce us to the mutt on the passenger seat, ears to the wind; when the spiderwort blooms its ethereal purple and tiger swallowtails flutter in the sunshine; when Santi rolls in the grass while I watch a snapping turtle creep to a stream; and when I share news of that turtle, as if I have just seen in the next town a man who heals the sick, I will wonder if it is possible for the world to be any more beautiful.

To remind yourself of the staggering beauty of the world–and the bliss of dogs–visit the gallery.

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Protection

For a week, the sky is gray like the inside of an old shoe. Rains arrive in all their demeanors and stay for a while. Santiago invites a Labrador to wrestle, and while the other dog declines, Santi’s own wagging and feinting and jouncing cause him to walk away with a limp that persists for days. I am early to an appointment to get the vaccine. The list of reactions that I’ve had to food and drugs, plants and insects, adhesives and ointments is long, and I am nervous. The nurses require me to wait thirty minutes after the shot is administered before I may leave. I sit facing a large, digital clock and read a page in the book I’ve brought over and over again.

When I am released to the parking lot, my mood is fizzy, like I’ve shaken from my tailpipe the car that has been following me, like I’ve been married at the court house, like I have fireflies under my hat. I want to celebrate. I drive home and pick up Santiago. We go to the river, where a cold drizzle falls on fresh green horsetails that have sprung up along the path. Over the dam, the Mississippi is pouring muddy, and the water is high. It laps at stone benches on the banks, the giving sand of the beach where we tramped in the fall visible beneath the ripples. I watch minute raindrops splash on the sleeves of my coat. Their glister in the dull light makes me feel warm and dry inside my clothes: protected.

For a day, I compelled Santiago to rest his leg. The energy within him now seems to pound at his chest; he tugs as if seeking double the encounter with the world. He leads me to a dog enclosure, and I take off his leash and let him inside. He wanders in the rain alone, engrossed, sniffing out departed spirits. We cross a field, then, and follow a bike trail, past the silver-wooded remnants of a split-rail fence, past junipers and growing grass. In a hidden glade, we find newly appointed bird feeders, and cardinals and blue jays who swoop from branch to branch. The sky holds its water.

The paths around the park are mostly empty. A man with two little girls tells them that they mustn’t wander too far from the car because more rain is coming. He points Santiago and me to an osprey nest that has been erected nearby. We walk to it, past white birches and gnarled pines and oak leaves that lift off the forest floor and settle again. A mallard tucks his beak beneath a wing on the shoreline below us. The shallow nesting box rests upon a tall beam staked among the trees, the entire vista an inky silhouette against the sky. The insulating scraps inside the box overtop it and flutter in the wind. Two ospreys stand guard, one at each end of the nest. They eye me sharply as I gaze up at them in wonder. Santiago starts munching the grass, the first of the season, dressed with raindrops.

This is the paradox of scowling clouds and swollen rivers, of wind that bites and rain that spits: that we make ourselves vulnerable to the world, and it sustains us.

I was vaccinated in a city that had been looted the night before, where a police officer killed a man on a Sunday afternoon. I live pressed between that city and one where a trial is being staged for the death of another man at the hands of another officer. For more than a week, my phone erupts with stabbing, curfew alarms. I learn to turn it off at 9:00 p.m., at 7:00, at 6:00, so that the last sound that I hear before closing my eyes at night is not panic. The vaccine injected into my body is banned the morning after I receive it as doctors review the hospitalizations and death that it has caused. I begin to dream about charging animals and murderous men and severed limbs, waking with jaws that are stiff and temples that ache from nights of clenching against the expectation of harm. In the daytime, I cannot draw a full breath. It is unclear whether this is due to my asthma–to the damp and the cold and the pollen–or to the anxiety that fills me like a taut balloon. Santiago’s limp returns.

All of the forces of protection appear to have failed.

Several times each day, I massage Santi’s leg. I cannot see an injury, but when I caress his shoulder and his elbow, he is motionless and thoughtful. When I stop, he looks at me pleadingly. He prefers this method of healing to eschewing the adventure of a daily walk. I remember that for the first two and a half years of his life, he was confined to a cage. The risk of lameness seems not to trouble him as much as the certain death of remaining folded in upon himself.

So we go outside. We walk in a wood where a sunbeam shines upon a single daffodil as tiny balls of spring snow tumble from the clouds. We watch bufflehead ducks glide across a pond, their blacks and whites like flecks of a fine tweed billowing over a loch. We greet the loons who have returned to our neighborhood lake, and we begin, again, to be startled by great blue herons, as inconspicuous as shadows, who rise suddenly from the banks of creeks and take flight, their large wings loping across the firmament.

The verdict in the murder trial is coming, but I cannot bear to listen to the radio. For days, the same deadly stories air over and over again, on every program, hour after hour after hour, a poison poured into the ear and running down the neck. I think of a literature student who once asked me, bewildered, if our syllabus included any happy stories. I have come to wonder whether it is true, as I was taught, that a good story must include conflict. Santiago and I stroll past a house on an elegant parkway, and it takes a long moment for me to recognize that the cardboard images placed in the front windows are of people shooting at passers-by. At an intersection, we happen upon a man slunk down in the driver’s seat of his car, giving the middle finger to everyone he passes, his eyes squinting, his mouth set.

Early on a Sunday morning, Santiago and I drive to a nature preserve. The temperature has barely breached freezing, but the day is bright and warming. For over an hour, we walk on hills that are covered with faded wildflowers and flagged with a tree or two, hills that dip down into woods green with moss, with understory beginning to leaf, and to lakes where ducks rest on the water and snail shells litter the grass. The birds and the wind speak in chapel whispers. Horses are welcome here, and each time we run across fresh manure, Santiago stops to examine it, nosing at the mound with curiosity then touching it with the tip of his tongue and drawing its full scent up into his nostrils.

There is more than one way to respond to what life lays on our path.

When we complete the loop, we eat. It is Santiago’s first picnic. I choose a table in the shade, and he sits on the ground beside me. I’ve brought kibble, which I feed to him bit by bit, but as I unpack more food he places his front paws on the bench and quivers with excitement. I share with him a hard-boiled egg and some challah stuffed with feta cheese and garlic salt. I pour him cold water, and I drink hot tea from a thermos. The sweet things are saved for later: an orange, a cookie, dog treats. Other people are beginning to arrive at the park: a man with a camera, a couple with children. I slide the pack onto my back, and we begin walking again.

We hike another trail. Birches and sumacs lead to a rushing rivulet where chorus frogs are croaking. Santiago wants to race ahead, but I ask him to stop and to listen, to digest his meal as the day gleams. We walk slowly through cool woods and out into the sunshine, where the ground that horses have trod has become as soft as powder. I do not tell Santi when riders on two, white steeds pass behind us, at a distance, but I watch the way the bristles of last year’s meadow seem to brush at their stirrups. The prairie sky is wide and blue above the worn, gold curve of the earth. Dark-winged swallows amass in a solitary tree. As I stare at the horizon, tears rise in my throat and fill my eyes. I breathe and take into my body the beauty of the landscape and the animating force within it. I receive them, not like a vaccine that teaches the cells what to resist, but like a lover embracing what is real and imperishable, with a heart at peace in the expectation of tenderness.

In the yard at home, bloodroot petals open at last to the sun, and tiny blossoms of spring beauty follow. Trimming raspberry canes, I see my first bee. I sit on the front stoop in the sunshine with Santiago at my feet, and I watch the neighborhood children wheel up and down the street on bicycles and tricycles, in wagons and on scooters. A mother stands at the door of her house and calls to a girl to put on her helmet.

Jury deliberation takes two days, and when the verdict comes, I stream it live. With people around the world, I watch the face of a man as he is convicted of murder. I do not know the name for the emotion that I feel. The over-stretched balloon of my anxiety deflates, but there is no relief. I weep alone in my house, my satisfaction unprotected from profound sadness.

When Santiago and I walk in this season, it is sometimes beside grassland black with soot or forest hacked and piled with brush. Death is present. But it is not separate from life, a thing to be resisted. Life and death are lovers, vulnerable to one another. Sunlight will reach the forest floor; it will grow greener, and the prairie will grow taller. Use of the vaccine injected into my arm will resume. After a slow wait, I will enjoy the sweetness of talking with neighbors in my yard.

On a windy day, Santiago finds a fairy house in a wood. When I open the door hinged to the hollow at the base of the tree, I find a rock upon which someone has painted the words, “Ice Cream Solves Everything.” On a warm day, Santi pulls me up a county road and down to an island park, where a man gathering trash smiles and says, “Happy Earth Day!” On a day when we are stalking groundhogs, a truck slows beside us, and I clench, expecting harm. It stops, and an old man with a ruined eye calls out the window, “I didn’t mean to scare you. My dog likes to see other dogs.” She is auburn, and her name is Wrinkles. She sits on the passenger seat and shimmers in the sunlight, and Santi embraces her with his barking.

On a cold day, he pulls me to a dead end on a suburban street. Before us, a lake backs up to private property: modest yards with shy gardens, and chairs set up to watch the sunrise over the water. A barred owl is calling. Its voice is low and summery underneath the riotous chirping of red-winged blackbirds. A woodpecker provides percussion. Canada geese begin to honk. We desire no protection from the life that we find here.

To see Santiago at his first picnic, and other scenes from a vulnerable life, visit the gallery.

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Holy

Holy Week arrives on the wind. Above the front yard, the branches of a white pine bend and shudder in the tempest. Morning after morning, the yard is dense with pods knocked loose from Kentucky coffee trees. Each one is nearly the size of my hand: a wine-colored pouch filled with smooth, brown seeds. I gather hundreds at a time, composting some, bagging others to be hauled away, saving a few seeds in a jar. Air that flutters like a moth on a warm, June lawn blows in. The next day, winter’s gelid fingers snatch it back. Icicles hang from the hidden wounds of trees.

On Tuesday, the windchill is well below freezing. Santiago and I walk. I wear jackets in layers and a knit cap on my head. We hike beside railroad tracks where an office chair has been abandoned. Its torn vinyl shimmers gold in the sunlight, and when a gust catches it, it swivels. Last year’s grass is flaxen and withered and shining in the strong, spring light. Santi stops to roll in it, standing upright and dusty and satisfied when he is through. Below us is the bright green turf of an athletic field, its line markings fresh in yellow and white. A woman is there, at the edge of a baseball diamond, flying a kite. The kite is shaped like a fish and has streamers for a tail. It is half-drowning in the waves.

I steer Santiago to the shelter of neighborhood streets. There, porches are furnished with comfortable old chairs, books are on offer in cabinets at the sidewalk, and a guitar has been made into a bird house overlooking a garden. We walk past a park where children in face masks are running off their recess. But Santi loves a good headwind; he watches the children then cuts through the trees around which they are playing and heads for the lake. The gale off the water is unremitting–and cold. Santiago speeds up to press against it, pulling me like a sled-load behind him. The wind seems to batter from every direction, now and then catching the lobe of an ear in its teeth. In this way it is like Santi when he wrestles with me, and encountering it is the same boisterous and merry delight. We watch a man in a sweatsuit out on a spit of land in the middle of the lake. He has a cell phone to his ear. Around his legs, his pale, gray pants flap and a shiny black lab gambols. The man and the dog are flecks on the vista, the ground beneath their feet almost invisible as all around them dark waves dance a tarantella.

If there is something more hallowed than this–the wind and the office chair and the dust and the kite and the waves and the man and the dog and our happiness–I do not know what it is. When Santiago and I finally reach the curve in the shoreline that leads us away from the sharpest squalls, we are greeted by a patch of pale purple crocuses. They are the first wild blooms I’ve seen this year.

“This is my body, given for you…”

In the evening, I am online with friends. They huddle on a couch as the sky turns to sapphire behind them. I turn on a lamp to light my face. We eat and drink and talk. I tell them that my brother-in-law’s best friend will die that night of COVID. “I thought,” he said to me, “that it would be a minor character, someone in the chorus.” A wife of their acquaintance is host to a merciless cancer. Our shoulders sag; our eyes are bleak. They ask about my writing, if it is going well, and I don’t know how to answer. I only know how to work by numbers: payroll hours, salary, word count. But I feel certain that there is another way. That is what I am seeking. We sing Lenten hymns, and the sound of our voices mingles and then climbs back inside us to where sacred things live. It sits down and closes its eyes and smiles.

Before I met Santiago, I was ignorant of spring. It was to me the season of filthy snow and dreary woods, of twigs scattered on dead lawns in the bone-chilling rain, the season of nothingness that preceded the season of dizzying heat. But Santi takes me walking in spring shoes. As Easter Sunday nears, we visit a tiny lake secreted between a railroad corridor and rows of beautiful, old houses. Some have Tudor peaks and some have Spanish tiles and one has a different clay mask hanging from each window. A hawk coasts in the sky above our heads among branches that sparkle white in the late morning light. As Santi and I approach the water, a Canada goose slips from the shade of tree roots on the bank and into the lake. She honks her displeasure again and again, like she has been forced onto the shoulder in traffic, and then settles into floating silently on the blue bobbles, among the weathered cattails.

We wander back to the sidewalks. When Santiago stops to pee on boulevard trees, I gaze up at buds about to release their tiny clutches in kaleidoscopes of leaf and blossom. Suddenly, at the sidelong limit of our vision, there is a flash of fur. We turn our heads. Santi aims his snout at a brick bungalow. He makes no noise but tugs at the leash. Underneath an arbor vitae, there is trembling. We have interrupted two rabbits at their spring business. Put off by our prurience, they hop away with great alacrity, slipping through a chain link fence into a little pool of backyard sunshine. Their courtship resumes. There is leaping and hunching and shimmying. We move on.

It is Maundy Thursday, and, in the evening, I watch a church service from my couch. Santiago is beside me. When the foot-washing occurs in the sanctuary, I go to the kitchen and run a cloth under warm tap water. I daub it with lavender soap. Santi breathes lightly as I caress his body, washing away what the wind has lodged in his fur. He withholds one foot, tucked under his torso, too tired to move. I give him a treat and turn back to the screen. The priest and the deacons remove their colorful stoles and strip the chancel. They take away the candles and the Bible and the pillows for kneeling at the remnants of the rood screen. They fold the altar cloths and cart them away. They drape the cross in black. The church looks like spring: like barren soil and empty branches and dusty stones. And then, for a long time, the priest crouches and washes the altar. I can’t explain why this makes me cry.

There is no such thing as a season of nothingness.

On Good Friday, the sky is overcast and the wind has not subsided. Santiago and I go out before breakfast. Among houses bearded with a scruff of unleafed ivy, we meet a man with an Alaskan Malamute, traveling on the opposite side of the street. The dog is large and white, his tail curled over his back. The man is slight. He stares straight ahead and pulls the dog behind him. The dog walks on tiptoes and glances back at us. His feet look too small. The teetering is how I know that his neck is wound with a collar made to choke him–a collar that is choking him. We pass a miniature greenhouse inside of which there are no plants, just a replica of a human skull, its jaws open in a howl. Underneath an awning, a woman stands at her front door drinking from a mug. She nods at us. The wind tears at lilies in a pot. A man exits the gate of a crooked fence and eyes Santiago warily. Santi rushes to smell him, wagging his tail, and the man softens. “Hey, guy,” he murmurs. Just before we reach home, I notice a painted stone at the edge of the sidewalk. It has never been there before. The words face passers-by.

The stone says, “Show Love.”

I walk a farmers’ market with a friend on Holy Saturday. All of the vendors want to talk: about bee hives and salsa verde and how ducks lay eggs. There is sunshine, and the wind calms. We order take-out and eat on the deck behind my house. Santiago lies on a blanket beside us, and my friend feeds him the crusts of her sandwich, grilled in butter.

“Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Santi and I wake early on Easter morning. We hurry ourselves and arrive at the Mississippi at dawn. Clouds with sooty hems hang over an empty bench high upon a hillside. And then they part. Robins are everywhere: scuttering across the paths, flying from tree to tree, singing. There is a splash beside a cottonwood ringed with the buck-tooth markings of a beaver, and Santiago and I watch a brown head glide downstream, ripples of water trailing each cheek. The sun climbs, orange and mild. Three men are working beside picnic shelters, picking up trash. They wish us a good morning, and they shout and swear and laugh at each other. Hooded mergansers, regal as scepters, have returned to the river, and gold finches have shrugged off their winter drab and flit among the rustling tallgrass in lemon yellow dress. Beside a post at the border of the playground, as Santi stalks groundhog burrows, I find a golden egg.

On a narrow trail, a woman approaches us. She has long, gray hair and is accompanied by a dog. The dog is small and quiet and pulling on the leash that tethers her to the woman. Santiago is distracted by a scent in the grass. I explain our situation.

“He’s friendly,” I call out.

The woman tosses her leash to the ground. The dogs trot to each other and nose a greeting.

“The Lord is risen!”

“The Lord is risen, indeed. Alleluia!”

Late in the morning, I drive. The sun shines over the freeway. I bring to my mother and father chocolate and jelly beans. Mom and I sit in the kitchen and chat as Dad hands us plates of pretzels and egg rolls, tortilla chips and black bean dip. He tends to the food sizzling on the stove and baking in the oven, and Mom shows me the Ukrainian egg she made decades ago, the quilt she completed last year. In August, she and my dad will have been married for sixty years. I ask them to tell me things that I don’t know: about when she taught riding in the mountains of Colorado and when he was picked up in a Mustang for a job interview and had to figure out what to eat at a golf club. Mom recounts how her foot was pierced by a shaft of wood; she shows me the wound. When I get home, I text my brother and sister the stories. All of our lives we have been part of a narrative that happened above our heads.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child…Then I shall understand fully, even as I have been understood.”

After Easter, the wind shifts. It rains. Earthworms by the score stretch in the gutters, and plastic eggs lie scattered in the parks, emptied of trinkets and sweets and abandoned. In a swamp, red-winged blackbirds chirr from atop the smooth skeletons of trees, and a muskrat has begun to fashion a new hut from old cattails. It showers and it drizzles and it pours, and Santiago and I walk between the raindrops, welcoming back the wood ducks and the herons. Pussy willow catkins go bushy like caterpillars. Cool air rises from the ground along with starbursts of Virginia waterleaf and needles of lily of the valley. One early morning, Santi and I board a fishing dock. I watch a man with a cigarette between his lips haul up a sunfish while Santi stares between the rails at three whitetail deer in the woods across the water. At the corners of household gardens, yellow flags of forsythia blossoms wave. A squirrel climbs a tree with a slice of pepperoni pizza in his mouth.

If there is something more hallowed than this, I do not know what it is. I turn on the computer, and I write.

Miss Santiago? You can find him rolling in the spring grass in the gallery.

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Noise

On a Monday morning, I step in dog poop. I am wearing new walking shoes that are the color of pipestone. They resist water and hug the arches of my feet. It is their second outing. Santiago has sprung at a little, red morsel the size of a rabbit’s liver on an abandoned ball field. Like nearly everything that he snatches from the ground with his mouth, the morsel is impossible to identify amid the noise of grass and leaves and litter that surrounds it. My shout to “Drop it!” yields nothing. In an effort to sweep the thing from his mouth, I rein in his leash with one hand and accidentally release from the other the sack that I am carrying of Santi’s own excrement. As he wrests away from me to enjoy his trash treat, I step on the sack. I hear it split. I look down and see the contents climbing up the midsole of my shoe.

Spring has been like this–with splats that keep coming. The air duct cleaning has to be rescheduled because asbestos is discovered in a ninety-five-year-old vent and has to be remediated. As I am thinking about friable fibers dangling in the gust of the furnace blower, I am informed of two, extended family members whose cancer has returned. I hear of people in their fifties, in their teens who have been vaccinated, and I become confused and anxious about when it will be my turn. One morning, dear friends text that their cat will be dying that day. And then the county releases its plan to divide my town in two with light rail running a block from my home. My mind is crowded with unpleasant thoughts, and a day comes when I can’t get dressed. Santiago and I do not go walking. I sleep, and I cry.

I tug Santi to the bleachers and sit down. I am muttering at him crossly as I grab a twig from the ground and begin cleaning my shoe. The spring warmth is tender, though the wind is chilly. I wear a light jacket and fingerless mittens, and my head is bare. On the ground nearby, yellow blooms of the year’s first dandelions are mirroring the sun. Overhead, creamy, white clouds have been stirred into a blue sky, and a young beech tree has sprouted little fists of leaves ready to unfurl. Santiago waits for me, sniffing the air over the creek behind us, where a couple of wood ducks are hiding in the scrub. It is a beautiful day. I turn down my muttering. I breathe. Stuffing the stick, the mess that I’ve created, and the broken sack into another that I’ve pulled from my pocket, I resume walking with my best friend. We walk until the din in my head is replaced by the song of the woodpeckers and the red-winged blackbirds who flit among the trees beside the long, still water.

When we return to the car, I rub Santiago’s jowls, give him a snack, and harness him into the back seat. I thank him for our time together. I check the bottom of my shoe. It’s as clean as the grass.

In the week before I step on the sack, on the morning after I’ve cried all day, I awaken to snow. It has fallen like sugar and lace, sweetening the lawns and festooning the trees. I am reminded of the folly of worrying about the future when the world routinely changes overnight. I take Santiago with me to a large park before breakfast. Everything is silver and white: empty picnic tables and upturned fishing boats; arching footbridges and cattails in their crooked, winter stacks; geese on the water beside the shrinking lake ice; birch trees in the wood. The fresh snow absorbs sound. Even my bootfalls and the jingle of Santiago’s tags are hushed. As we approach a bend in the path, though, I hear a man’s voice. He comes into view, and his jacket and cap look like raw gold against the landscape drained of all but the subtlest colors. He is alone. He is looking at the top of a tree. He has been chatting with a blackbird. He greets us.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he says.

Santiago is ecstatic. It is perfect scenting weather: the day is warming, making the snow cool and wet and full of fragrance. Santi ignores the squirrel tracks that run from tree to tree but is keen on what may be a skunk. For a long while, he is in pursuit of a coyote or a fox who is in pursuit of a deer–at least, that is the story that I read in the tracks. And deep into the woods, both Santi and I are captivated when we happen upon a holiday parade: a man and a woman attired in bright green St. Patrick’s Day hats and sweatshirts who are walking beside an Irish setter. Santiago barks and barks, providing curbside applause for the spectacle. On the way home, I stop at a strip mall shop and buy a cake doughnut with white icing and green sprinkles.

The splats come, but so do the robins. Santiago gets his first tick of the season, and shipping begins anew on the Mississippi River. When we walk in the neighborhood, we see snow shovels on front porches and paper tulips in front windows. Tulip shoots are coming up in our gardens. Where I split my knee on the ice, the scab falls off, and my winter skin stops itching. One day, I run into a neighbor I haven’t seen in over a year and he hugs me on the sidewalk. I flinch; I have embraced only Santi since the lockdown a year ago. But it’s nice. My neighbor says that the mayor and the county commissioner have to hear from people about the light rail plan, that he will be calling them. A decade ago, they wanted to raze his home and the fox den in the yard and the hundred-year-old pines and run the rail there, in the alley behind my house. I go inside and pick up a rosary. I start praying for everyone I know who needs healing.

My neighbors to the north are away, and the quiet is astonishing. I cannot stop listening to it. In our old, urban neighborhood, the lots are close. The rattle of wagons on the abutting driveway, the whirr of bikes, the thud of a basketball, the shouts and laughs and screams of the children who live in the house and play in the yard next door are but five feet from my kitchen sink. The absence of power tools and carpools and cousins and all of the noises that a family of six makes is like my own retreat. I feel less cross.

Santiago and I drive to our favorite park after the snow melts. On the approach, I see from my window a Canada goose standing atop a beaver dam with the morning sun glowing behind him. It’s a beautiful day. Santi loops around fragrant junipers and red-painted bird houses to the dog corral for a look-see and then to a trail we’ve never been on before. It is bright but cold, and I regret not having brought gloves. I watch a couple of deer leap across the scrub and disappear into the woods while Santi is sniffing a fence. The roaring of the March wind among the trees is at times so loud that, once, I turn to see if there is a motorized vehicle on the path behind us. I stop and record the sound: God pushing spring forward.

At home that day, I redistribute sodden leaves throughout the gardens, lightening the load where autumn winds had dealt unfairly and applying the mulch where the soil is bare. When I straighten my back, my arms around a wad of leaves like a sack of potatoes, I am startled to be looking into the eyes of a child. He is my neighbor to the south, standing on the retaining wall beside me. He has to go to pre-school soon, he says, and he doesn’t want to learn because it takes too long and is tiring. His sister appears. She is older. When I ask why she isn’t in school, she says that she has a runny nose and a cough. The muttering in my mind begins again.

Rain comes. It comes when I expect snow, and this, too, causes muttering. It is too warm. But the future can’t be expected. The earth is no longer frozen, and the rain soaks into the soil, and it is good. Santiago–having peed quickly in the yard and submitted to a toweling–has retired to the bed. I stack breakfast dishes in the sink and make tea. The radio broadcasts news of a shooting at a grocery store a thousand miles away. My cousin shops there. I text her. She is all right. She worries that she will know one of the dead. My sister says that a rainy day is a good one for not worrying. I tell my cousin that I love her and turn off the radio.

When the rain slows to a drizzle, I dress and Santiago and I go walking. We are in a wood, on a winding dirt path high above a pond. The sleeves of my raincoat swish against my sides, and drops fall upon my hat with the almost imperceptible plink of tiny needles hitting a hard floor. In the water below us, geese are courting: the chasing and honking, flapping and splashing rise up the banks like the noise of young lovers crashing down an amusement park flume. Above us, too, the bird song is clamorous–the screech of blue jays and the whistle of chickadees–and where seed has been left, cardinals are feeding beside red and gray squirrels. We pass a few other people, walking in the damp air with their hoods up. And then the rain evaporates. The moss on the forest floor has become a vivid green.

The county wanted to run light rail here, too. As if getting somewhere else were very important.

At home, green leaves of bloodroot and prairie smoke are coming up in the gardens among the soft noise of fallen leaves faded to dun. I make a batch of buttermilk biscuits for supper. I fold and re-fold the dough so that they will be high and flaky, and I form them with a large cutter that was once my grandmother’s. Santiago and I share one, warm from the oven, as the rain comes down again. It is the only noise I hear.

To see a lost winter hat and a milk carton bird house, an Easter basket and frogs at tea, as well as other pleasures of spring creeping in, visit the gallery.

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Survival

I lie in bed alone, listening to winter. My eyes are closed. The bedroom door is closed. The windows are closed. The world has settled in, is only just this big: the shape of the room that floats beyond flannel sheets, just out of the reach of dreams. A hollow rasping near the foot of the bed is the furnace beginning to heat the house for the day. When it cycles off in the darkness, I can hear the faint, high-pitched whoosh of a small humidifier sitting atop the dresser. I listen for car engines, for the cold crunch of rubber tires on packed snow. Though it is a weekday morning, there is nothing. Suddenly, a crow importunes, and the cackle and whine of its call is swallowed, just as suddenly, by the silence. I listen to my own breathing.

Santiago is downstairs, on the couch, where he sleeps when he is very tired. We had a long walk yesterday. The day before that, he stood in the middle of an empty dog park, the sun grinning fitfully far above his head in a sky full of shifting clouds. He faced the gate, scanned the horizon, and barked: once, twice, three times, pausing between vocalizations. His body was motionless, all of his energy gathered like platelets to a wound in pricked ears, a quivering nose, yearning eyes, alert to the dog who would answer his call to come and play. There was no response. He hung his head and walked to a bench. Sniffed it. Dug at the snow underneath it. Peed on it. And then, along a gently sloping path outside the fence she came: a year-old, shepherd-collie mix, small-boned and eager, watching Santiago as she walked beside a tall man with a crooked gait and kind eyes. He was a former mail carrier. We talked about the boon of leggings for keeping snow out of one’s boots. He told me who to call to get the literary journal that had been lost at the post office for a month. The dogs played.

You never know when a prayer will be answered.

Santiago has another new friend. She has moved in across the street. Her ears are tall and elegant. She is younger than Santi, still a puppy, with a frame like his, but slighter. She likes wrestling and chasing and is not afraid of Santiago’s power and flamboyance. On the morning of their last date, I received a text–“Sweetie could be ready early”–moments after Santiago had stood on our bed and barked a demand to go outside, so that it seemed that the dogs were communicating with one another, in whatever way they have that we humans do not comprehend.

I harnessed Santiago into the back seat of the car that morning and turned the key in the ignition. Winter’s silence followed. It was 3ºF. The battery had not survived the cold. I unbuckled our seat belts and we left the car in the driveway, trotting as quickly as we could–over ice-mogulled sidewalks, and around fenced-off railroad tracks, with Santiago stopping once to leave a deposit that I had to stoop to retrieve–the ten blocks to the park where Sweetie awaited. When he saw her, Santi gave a great cry of longing, of joy strangled and desperate to be unleashed. The dogs had the corral to themselves. They played in the bright, cold snow until thirst overtook Santiago, silver-browed now, his vigor no longer as eternal as it once had seemed.

This is how we recharge ourselves: by walking out to where our dreams can find us.

I tried turning over the engine once each day, and when the quietude of the season remained unbroken, I smiled at the great blessing of having no need of a car. I spent the weekend scribbling notes in an online writing class, reading a story referenced in a magazine article, napping between meals: the open-ended unaccomplishments of a person at work on being someone rather than doing something. When Monday arrived, I called for a jumpstart and took the car to a shop. Santi and I wandered the neighborhood while the battery was being replaced. We discovered front porches kitted with cheery chairs, competing Christmas spectacles in neighboring yards, and shop windows stacked with new novels and vintage furniture and cupcakes. Santiago got a treat from the auto shop clerk before we left.

The ice came, as it does every winter now, weeks ago: a warm, slushy snow that froze in the subsequent cold. Unshovelled sidewalks have become a glaze of cratered boot prints; intermittently plowed park paths sport a sheen of snow drift that melts and then re-freezes; and snowy, forest footpaths have been trampled to a startling lubriciousness. I have learned to trot with Santiago in winter, to take his speed rather than trying to rein him back to mine. It is counter-intuitive: the notion of traveling more quickly rather than more slowly over hazardous ice. But experience has taught me not to resist the conditions, to move with the ice the way that one moves down a hill, acquiescing to momentum. I am more likely to splay or topple when a plodding heel hits a slick surface than I am when my toes land lightly and dance forward. This dancing makes us more svelte in the colder months, Santiago and I, than we are in the fat heat of the summer.

We walk around a lake basin one day. Someone has speared broken egg shells onto a couple of cattails. It is like happening upon a cairn or a cave painting or a shard of cut stone. Who made this thing and what was in her heart? I tug Santiago into the snowy marsh to get a better look, but the cattails are too tall for me to see inside the egg cups. I wonder if they are filled with bird seed. Above us, the sky is white. Around us, the cattails and the woods have the sepia tint of an old photograph. We walk. A shock of red dogwood branches frames a winding, snow-covered creek. Where the water breaks free from icy banks, beneath a footbridge, it trickles blackly over green stones. Santiago is sniffing where mallards often huddle. The scuffling of our feet stilled, I listen. The creek burbles softly, and the water that constitutes my body heeds it and begins to flow with the same, calm eddying… A chickadee sings, and then a junco. A woodpecker knocks. We walk for an hour and see no one. I wonder how others survive.

I spent the last week of January doing final edits on the memoir of a man in his ninth decade of life. His childhood roommate was a grandfather who fled the pogroms in Russia. In high school, he worked at his uncle’s junkyard and made out with his girlfriends on the balcony of the movie theater he managed. He walked half a mile from the bus stop to his college campus because he couldn’t afford to live in the dorms. He joined the Army and was stationed in Germany, where he drank wine in the shadow of castles on the Rhine River; he was terrified that WWIII had begun when Russia invaded Hungary. He has had two wives and three careers and one bankruptcy. He spent an entire winter in a contagion ward after contracting hepatitis from an unclean dental instrument. When the Angel of Mercy came to him, he says, he fought like hell. The sound of the laughter that punctuates his stories is like the sound of footsteps dancing across ice.

Santiago and I walk before breakfast one morning and watch the sun rise. The sky is a grubby blue behind dark rooftops limned with pale pink clouds. I do not know how long it has been since I have seen even so tepid a dawning. By the time that we are back in our kitchen, the sun has disappeared again. Day after day after day after day, the clouds smother us.

But Santiago and I do not resist. We walk with glad, bare heads in the dangerous winter warmth, under the blanket of clouds. These are the days that have been given to us. I open the windows of the house to wave out the stale air of fried eggs and pine-scented candles and frustration. Then I shut them and call Santi to the couch. He settles in against my side, underneath a blanket as heavy as a pelt. I settle in against a pillow, book in hand. He snores. I read. This is what clouds are for.

For too long, I disappeared each day like the winter sun, returning to the house at dusk with enough money to pay a woman to let Santi out to piss while I was gone. It was not a way to live.

On Sunday, it is cloudy. It is so warm that the thick ice on the sidewalks has gone mushy. It is snowing. The flakes are large and desultory, so widely spaced that I forget that they are falling until I notice them on my coat sleeve and am astonished by their loveliness. Santiago watches a man and a boy gliding across a hockey rink with two-handled shovels, sweeping away the snowfall. We are walking on streets we’ve never traversed before. The houses change from block to block–from rows of little bungalows to sleek modern facades oriented to the light, to a house on stilts two stories high built into a steep wood–so that one can watch history unfurl like a scroll as we pass.

Santiago marks the plowed snow at the ends of driveways, and I consider adornments in the yards: a heavy-shouldered wicker moose; great, wrought iron chimes; a sailing ship affixed beside a house number; an angel lifting a star to a rooftop. In front of a wooden swing, a sculpted buck has lost one antler. He is wearing a bright orange bow and strings of Mardi Gras beads. He looks at us with a weathered eye.

Who has placed this here, and what is in her heart?

To see the buck, the egg shells and other homespun art, as well as Sweetie and Santi out for a walk, visit the gallery.