Sunrise, Sunset

Sunrise, Sunset. Sunrise, Sunset. Swiftly fly the years.

I couldn’t resist. Once a song gets entrapped in my head, it can only be freed by singing. Not that I need an excuse. I will sing for any reason. It lifts my spirit, makes me feel light as a feather.

One season following another.

Winter with it’s snow-covered bushes, to Spring with its ducks and ducklings.

Laden with happiness and tears.

And in this winter of covid-discontent I have shed some nostalgic tears. The bitter sweet kind that I have shed for a time past. But a time that, remembered, still brings a smile. All because we moved from my home of thirty-one years, where those memories were formed. Now that we are in the house on the mountain, with its magnificent sunrises and sunsets, and I am unpacking boxes of memorabilia and pictures, I am reliving all the years those pictures captured.

Pictures of me as a child, and as a Sweet 16.

Pictures of friends that meant so much to me at one time and have faded away into memory.

Pictures that back up stories I have written over the past years.

The girlfriend who lived across the street and would dance in the summer rain with me.

The brother who took up so much energy while we lived in the same house and, now takes up so much space on the pages I have been writing.

Pictures of the costumes and plays that sweetened my life at the time.

And pictures of my children as babies and kids in their own costumes and plays.

And time hurries on. And the leaves that are green turn to brown. A Simon and Garfunkel song about aging.

And the Bette Midler song:

So, if you’re walking down the street some time

And you spot some hollow ancient eyes

Don’t pass them by and stare, as if you didn’t care.

Say “hello in there. Hello.”

So, I am at the winter of my life. More pavement behind me than in front. And all these memories are stuck in my head, keeping the songs company.

But, that sixteen-year-old is still vibrant. As is the eight-year-old. They have not died. They’ve just made room on the stage for the older me. The grandmother who will crawl on the floor and be a horse to some munchkin cowboy. I won’t be silenced simply because I have to dye my hair and stretch my back when I get up in the morning.

I refuse to have Hollow Ancient Eyes.

And the leaves that are brown will turn to green.

And that’s why I write. It energizes that child, teen, young adult, young mother, empty-nester, menopausal grandmother who is lodged in the head next to those songs.

And I will continue to sing. Because it lifts my spirit; like a beautiful feather drifting over the snow-covered bushes.