Those Solo Walks

Now and then, I have occasion to walk through town in the early morning, houses still sleepy-eyed, shops not yet open, a certain kind of light. A gardener looks up and nods, or a dog-walker passes, but the streets are mostly empty. I stop to marvel at a burst of bougainvillea, or the way the mountains loom in the distant haze above the rooftops and steeples. A cat peers out a window through an opening in the drapes, the shadows of wrought-iron gates make patterns on the sidewalk, a blackbird poses by a bright-red door. Sometimes aromas of coffee and bakery goods tug at me, but I stride along, enjoying the loveliness of Santa Barbara waking up, grateful to be present. 

More typically, my walks are country treks, wanders along dirt roads and grassy hillsides, cattle grazing in the distance. One recent morning, the road was hemmed with emerald. Borders of green grass had sprung up in the aftermath of rain, now iridescent in the sunlight, and I stopped in my tracks to delight in it. I imagined my sister Marlene standing next to me, her honey-colored hair awash in sunshine, and my brother Eddie, a little boy again, running on ahead.

Yes, I look like I am walking alone, but I am often accompanied by my beloved dead, the usual cast of characters. They never saw the likes of this. I inhabit a world of wonders, and it isn’t fair that their landscapes were so constrained and their troubles so excessive — and so, I bring them with me. Time slips around and sense is suspended, and we float freely in another realm. I know it’s probably wishful thinking, but for an instant the wish is fulfilled, and it’s no less real or more ephemeral than everything else.