On the dock with Dave, early morning, he casts, I sit to his left, hot mug in my hands. A pair of squawky blue herons complain at our intrusion in their quiet morning and flap their way to a new better spot. Canada geese gather and disperse in a way that both makes sense and is confusing, leaving stray feathers floating on pollen covered water. Dave throws his lure offshore again and again, reeling it in as we say little and sit in the cool morning. Eventually the line tugs. Got a bite, he says and reels it in. The anticipation is short as he pulls in an open mouthed big eyed flat and beautifully speckled something or other, removes the hook and tosses it gently back into the shallows off the end of the dock.
Coming back from my run, I see Greg climbing into his kayak and shoving offshore, easy paddle strokes pulling him through calm water away from me. As I climb into my boat and move across the lake I remember his words from our childhood – a whiny plea to my relentless pull at doing whatever he was doing: stop following me! And think, well… as I pull water from in front and move it to behind me, marveling at how the boat easily slides and slices through the morning lake. Mist rises and he is somewhere hidden behind it, silent as the morning. I aim for what looks like a cove, imagining sweet wild things slipping between cattails around the next corner. My paddle pushes through pollen-laden unmoving water. Soon enough I see Greg paddling toward me through the mist. We move quietly through the early morning in parallel strokes, water dripping off the fat end of the paddle as ducks float and hunt in the shadows along the shore.
My brothers and I climb up one of the old ski hills of our childhood in dew covered feet. A flock of Canada geese watches our arrival, far enough away that we are not a threat. An immature eagle or perhaps a hawk screeches as we approach its towering pine and launches its body into the sky, circling and continuing its warning cry. Greg carries our mom’s ashes in his pack to the spot where we can see the gathering place for so many years of ski instruction. We share memories of conquering a black diamond, breaking a leg, falling off the chairlift – successes and failures and memories too numerous to count. We decide on the just right spot and float patiently toward the just right time, each filling our hand with what is left of her borrowed stardust. Bits of ash are carried off by the breeze while others fall to our feet and become part of the grasses where next winter another generation will learn to ski. I brush my hands back and forth on what I now realize is creeping thyme, wiping off the last of the ash as a waft of sweet herb is released. Thyme. It’s everywhere, flowering purple and stretching like a carpet across the green slope. Thyme. The symbolism and a bittersweet memory hit me hard: it’s the moment the doctor is telling my mother she is dying. It takes several tries as it’s a lot to take in. Finally she begins to understand and she says, I thought I had more time.