I Thought I Was Too Old for a New Best Friend
I was wrong.
The sun swallows the last of a lingering fog and unveils an unblemished cobalt sky, taking with it the chill of the early morning air. The entrance to the meticulously maintained park and certain areas along the roadway inside are beautifully landscaped. Faded blue and green hydrangeas still hold fast and late blooming azaleas are covered in pale and deep pink blooms. Spring and summer flowers are replaced by orange, russet, and red zinnias and mounds of cadmium yellow mums announcing the coming of autumn. A gaggle of Canadian geese peck at the ground on a grassy hillside as they waddle their way, single file, toward the creek that runs through the park.
It is September 11th, and, despite its sad significance, it is an incredibly lovely day. There are more visitors in the park today than usual, many congregating at a distant ball field for a somber commemoration of the thousands of lives lost over two decades ago. The sporadic keen of a bagpipe carries through the fragrant air and an occasional errant skirl makes me wince. My new friend, Rosie, and I walk the wooded path skirting the shallow creek rushing to meet the river. The fast-flowing water, runoff from the surrounding mountains, carries a few free-loading mallards as it cascades over big rocks, splashes, froths, and gurgles and winds its way through the woods making…
