“And God be praised we had a good increase… Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.” – Edward Winslow, Mourt’s Relation
Archive for November, 2014
“Who is really living next door to you? To what extent do you know the answer?
and therefore for a minute now and then… are grateful for their presence?” Hafiz, A Year With Hafiz: Daily Contemplations
I see David more now that he is dead.
I see ghosts. Not the glowing figure of someone gone, but a burning memory like staring at the sun and looking away only to continue seeing spheres. The more years I live the more ghosts I see.
A man at the market walks with the same casual pleasure. The world spun and David stuck out his foot to meet it.
A laugh at the coffee shop echoes David’s. The smile from a man David’s age comes from the same genes. If he no longer exists in the flesh, he lives in those around me. His death connects us.
David was the first person to die who I can say I loved. He was a neighbor across the street. His garden was greener. His flowers blossomed. Cars would stop at the sign in front of our houses, and the drivers would look to David’s yard for signs of progress and secretly for silent advice on their own planting schedules. This was my technique. David knew better. He lived here his whole life. I was a transplant.
David watched me haul buckets of water from the house on a hot June day. I walked out the front door for the second time with five-gallon buckets of water sloshing and spilling onto my legs and watched with surprise as a rainbow of mist moved across my salad greens and corn. On the other end of the rainbow was David, smiling. His hose draped across his left hand and his right was holding the source. A damp line on the warm pavement between our homes connected his yard to mine.