The moment Steve claimed he could smell Sycamore trees, I was swinging–ever so slightly so as not to spill my coffee–on a wooden bench swing on the porch of a cabin we had rented during a recent vacation for just the two of us.
Before he spoke, I was sitting alone on the porch, gazing through the woods, past the Virginia Creeper bicycle trail, to Laurel Creek where sunbeams glittered on moving ripples of rushing water. I’d put the book I was reading, still open, in my lap and was half-listening to the ambient sounds around me. Birds chirped. The creek water gurgled. The gravel crunched when the occasional biker pedaled by.
From the cabin, Steve came out to the porch and sat down in a chair beside the swing. “Look at that walnut tree.”
Immediately, I was victim and judge. He was guilty. His crime: interrupting my reverie. Continue reading “A secret to moving beyond all that divides us…”