He sat on the porch in the afternoon, shade of the wide-spread maple before. Its leaves were darkened on shadowside from sun, and for the first time in many weeks, aside from storms, there was neither excesssive heat nor burden. T-shirt, linen shorts, shade of the tree; there was a comfort.
Far side of summer’s peak, each new day brought lesser sun. Its track receded back to south of sky. Locusts were loud in their hour and time, but in late afternoon, nature’s songs were mute.
Traffic of the cars in return from lake sounded to the south. Wind chimes rang, and he made their airy sounds the focus of his ears. Not drowning out the other, but lessening its impression.
Hay was on the ground, rolled but not yet baled—slow drying in the humid air.
Tomorrow.
Come morning, tomorrow would be today and he would labor hard again. He gave the Sunday up to God—and rest—as the Bible said.
He smoked his cigar, a modern vice unmentioned in eternal Book.
He repaired an heirloom vanity for his daughter that was his mother’s and grandmother’s before. Heirloom would live on, and of a nostalgia and respect for histories, to know gifted a humble happiness.
Forty years old, he had little figured out. Twenty-two, he thought most of life was planned.
Further living, he found it was the surprises—intercessions and redirections—more than plans that gifted life its pleasures: experience of life-pilgrimage.
In Mass that morning, in listen to consecration of the Host and Cup, Father’s speaking of when our time and earthly pilgrimage is done, he thought of his own death—more than he had in while. What did he hope to make and achieve of the journey and life-gift?
Gratitude.
Love.
Heirlooms of spirit gifted, shared, and passed along to those who would last beyond.
He wanted nothing more, maybe never had.
He entered with nothing, would leave with same—except for lessons of the heart and refinement of the Spirit; perhaps shortening time and climb on the Mountain if such of the Catechism were true.
That was enough.
That was enough.