Companions
He had slick brown fur, a long body, and short legs that zig-zagged around our backyard enclosed by cinder block wall. A frankfurter Ferrari. A wiener Renault. A kielbasa McLaren who formed a high-desert Grands Prix circuit with u-shaped, crisscrossing trails carved into crunchy grass with his sturdy padded feet. Using the trails, there were any number of ways to get to the crab apple tree, the sour grapes against the wall, or the odd patch of ultra-green sod on the side of the house that seemed out of place in this oasis dominated by Southwest earth tones. Even the dog had the rich brown and red shades of ponderosa pine bark.
And he was always there. Through playground drama. Through adolescence. At the start of lifelong friendships sparked and forged at movie marathons on a green shag carpet. He was there — tunneling so deep under the blankets that he seemed lost and without oxygen. But he was fine. And so were we. He thrived on the envelopment he created that in turn helped us breathe, celebrate, and mourn. He was a life force pumping with blood and energy, but with no words, no lessons, no praise, and no guidance.
Well, maybe guidance. But it was the kind of guidance you could only access if you followed those trails through the parched grass before an August storm in the high desert and took in the scent of the coming rain. After that, you likely understood the need to bolt across the yard as the lightening flashed and lit up the sky over the West Mesa. Then, if you caught one last trail to the crab apple tree, you may have known what it is to see the first droplets bounce off of the dusty leaves, making them shine new again before hightailing onto the porch, past the sliding glass door, and onto the yellow couch where you could stretch out as the rain soaked the dry sponge of a yard.
That was the guidance he gave until the engine under his shiny hood of body finally gave out. There was nothing we could do to fix it. All we could think to do was go to a Chinese restaurant and toast his life with a clink of white teacups.
It took twenty-five years of living before I wanted another speed demon — before I felt like I had enough fuel for one and ached for something to help propel me, this time through the isolation of an ailing society. 2020. Something to help me breathe, celebrate, mourn. It took a little convincing of a husband and teenage daughter who didn’t fully understand — who didn’t grow up with the frankfurter inside the cinder blocks. But they did understand just enough to give in.
Many things are different now, being over 2,000 miles away from where I was. No lightening over the West Mesa. Instead, we have the snow and wind that pushes though foothills of the White Mountains through the beginning of spring. The grass under the layers of snow is mossy and damp — not at all crunchy. The yard is open and surrounded by woods. No cinder blocks. We run after a tumble of black curls instead of slick, brown smoothness, and we don’t end up at a crab apple tree when we get to where this poodly Pontiac leads us through paths he carves into the snow. But we do get to a tree. A beech tree where, if we have any sense at all, we stop the way he wants us to, knowing full well that any news of an ailing world can wait.
It can wait because the beech tree holds tight to leaves that are no longer green — New England leaves that are as dry and withered as desert plants. God knows they should have fallen with all of the other leaves in October, but they didn’t. He sees them move in the cold breeze like paper wind chimes. He sits with his rump in the snow, neck craned toward the sky to watch this small miracle. To listen. And when he’s ready, to bolt across the yard and settle into the brown couch.
We follow.
