|Sally at five months|
This juicy morsel and her mother, Sarah, were in town last weekend. I sat in church with them and decided to take Sally outside into the bright gold that is October this year. I carried her across the street and into the cemetery thinking we could visit Lucy's grave. A romantic notion, I realize quickly. Sally is heavy and I have a weak lower back and am clumsy as a three-legged dog. I am huffing and panting, the grass is uneven, my back pain is sharp and when we are halfway between the church and the gravesite, I realize I have put us in danger. I could fall down and she would go with me. How stupid to take this on as if I were fifty.
I lean on headstones.
Finally, we reach Lucy's grave. What was I expecting? For Lucy to rise up and greet us? For Sally to speak in tongues? "Dumb," I say out loud. I am worried about my own exhaustion. Sally begins to cry. "Yeah, I know," I say.
I head back holding tightly to my lively bundle, watching carefully for potholes. Just before the street is a tiny embankment that now looks like the Himalayas. Do not fall down are my instructions to myself.
Finally, I am seated on the stairs to the church. Sally gurgles and grins, unaware of the stupidity of my venture. I kiss her under the gold cup of her ear.