Senses

When I sit still I appreciate my senses. The rest of the time they get as much respect as the hairs on my head; if they were gone I'd miss 'em but I don't care what they do.

Tonight is a perfect late summer early evening. My senses of sight, sound, smell, touch, are pulling memories out of the past. I'm looking over our deck into the green and brown-black woods of our back yard. The patches of sky I see through the leaves is the lightest shade of blue. The flowers in the gardens are faded to fall. Air temperature is football night cool, just a touch under warm.

At any moment I could hear the kitchen door to the garage open with a push. That door has it's own DNA sound. I hung the door so it's been partially broken since day one. What you hear with that door is more what you don't hear--the latch doesn't work so you don't hear the click first, you hear the spring in the tube groaning. The next sound would be Aaron or Patrick pushing their way in--"Hey." Then the fridge opens because you can't come in the house unless you inspect the interior of the fridge.

There will be dew on the grass in the morning. Squirrels are gathering nuts. Our yard is full of shells. The leaves are showing signs of preparing to bale out. I don't hear the little kids tonight. Moms and Dads are probably trying to get them on a school schedule a week early. We did that.

7:35 PM. In grade school days, Aaron and I would be wrapping up youth football practice. Cathy usually had dinner ready. Lots of noise in the house. We would finish a night like this on the deck or front porch.

Somebody is cutting grass of course. Winter might be the quietest time. Living in a neighborhood of mixed ages a lawn mower is constantly at work. The retired guys cut grass from morning 'till dinner and the working fellas start at dinner and go 'till dark. Winter has one redeeming quality after all.

It gets darker on the hill in the trees earlier than below. Patrick argued that point as a little guy. He was right. We let him stay out ten minutes longer. I can hear the sounds of Patrick and Aaron and their friends. In and out of the house. ON bikes, skateboards, and roller blades. Our doors got a workout and survived. The bikes are hung up, beaten to submission like the roller blades.

Now it's ten minutes later and time for Patrick to come home. When he comes in he'll have little sweat beads on his nose. Aaron will come in a little later. He'll be hungry.