Impossible is the Only Impossible

A pair of turtle doves coos on the shimmering ridge-top above me. Down here, in a shaded cocoon of redwoods, on the steep narrow trail, it’s cave-quiet and pleasantly cool. I feel attuned to the life that holds me.

There’s a faint tap on my hiking cap, followed by the sound of something rustling below me.

I touch the bill of my cap and stop. My sunglasses are gone. I peer downhill into a shadowy pile of redwood needles and leaves.

There. A glint of black.

I cautiously climb down the slope. Squatting, I reach down and grab the glasses.

“I saw them flying off your head!” calls my wife Kathy, who is following me down the path. Between us, I see the offending branch that swatted the glasses off my head.

I hold the glasses up to show her and then do a double-take. The frames look unfamiliar.

“These aren’t mine,” I say.

“They must be,” she replies. “I saw them fly off your head.”

I look more closely at the tortoiseshell frames. Mine are black. “Maybe I grabbed one of your extra pairs?” I say.

“Nope,” she replies. “Those aren’t mine either. You must have taken someone else’s when we left the house.”