By Rose Mary Johnson
It was midday. I stood near a Dogwood tree in full bloom. Starring off into the distance at the grand outline of a mountain top gracing the sky, I fell into deep contemplation. Deep into a gray I seeped. The haze overtook me.
I began planning it like a birthday party. All the while, my eyes fixed straight ahead. Breathing slow and tempered. A distant memory. Charcoal penciled sketch of a forest drew across the paper of my thoughts. Once, within me, was a great fear. Stripped, though, I had become. Naked to my core. My only harbinger existed deep in the gray.
A light pierced the dark mood. The mockingbird I had been feeding landed on a branch directly in front of me. We were face to face. I could have reached out and touched its gentle feathers. I dared not move as it eased my pain. The hurt slowly began to slough off. A momentarily waterfall of ease graced me. A smile formed. I whispered a greeting. Intently the bird sat, remaining close.
As I walked away, the wind whipped up my back. I felt its push. Then, like a chorus playing the wind’s song, Dogwood petals began to fall like snow. The sun was bright. Spring had just begun. As the petals fell, I swear it was like the wind whispered to me,
This was for you.
Perhaps my ego was clinging to the sunshine as my mind labored in the dark skies of winter. The gray was fearless. But, the memory was pristine. Perhaps better served would be memory’s embroiled panic hung from the sketched charcoal trees still drawn in my mind.