Overnight temperatures had dropped below freezing for several days. I awoke to the sound of drops plopping from the eaves onto my deck. I wanted to roll over, pull my comforter over my head and plunge back into my dreams. In my dreams Noah warmed me. I touched him, tasted his lips, laid my head on his chest and felt his chest rise and fall, his heart beating.
In the real world, Buster thrust his head next to my face, synchronizing his breathing with mine. I
know that doesn't sound bad, but honestly, it's creepy. I can't explain why it works but it always does.
In an instant I was yanked from a world where Noah still lived to the cold reality of my dog looking at me with expectation smeared all over his doggy features. The thumping of his tail filled my bedroom like a heartbeat.
Some days Buster and I drive out to Rodeo Beach, where he chases seabirds, balls and other dogs while I watch the wet-suited surfers, wishing I could join them. I'd surfed once, in Costa Rica, flying free on a long board over glistening green waves. But one day is not enough. The ocean slamming Northern California is no place for a novice and I knew that I did not have what it takes to brave the Pacific. There are some things that if you haven't done by a certain age, you never will, just as there are things you once did that you will never do again. Thus, I remain beached, watching the surfers, listening to their yelps and howls in the early morning chill and ride the surging, unpredictable ocean.
When we don’t go to the beach we mae the short drive past downtown Mill Valley to the slopes of Mount Tamalpais and the trails through the redwoods. When you hike the same paths regularly you learn that the forest is always changing, offering up fresh wonders, as complete and whole as a rainbow in a dew drop. Sometimes, that's all you get, one shining instant in the murk of your day, the sunlight threading a golden path on the ocean, a purple iris amid the weeds, your son and dog frolicking together.
That morning, the one when everything changed, began like any other. Buster and I reached the parking lot at the trailhead just after sunrise. The dog's joy filled the car like a cloud of perfume. Buster had no way to grasp the nature of my grief any more than he could comprehend sleepless nights or the memory of better times. For Buster there was only now, this minute, and he was ecstatic.
Redwood branches creaked high overhead, catching and slowing the rain that beaded on Buster’s fur and swelled the tiny stream that we followed uphill. I walked with my head down. The hood of my raincoat kept the rain off my face but narrowed my field of vision to the path underfoot where mushrooms flashed their red heads from behind sodden bushes, a clump of ferns unfurled into jade fans, and a loamy smell silted upward with each step, a pungent contrast to the tangy scent of the redwood trees. Buster, impatient with my pace, raced ahead.
The rain slowed to a mist as I crested a ridge. I threw back my hood, breathing in the moment, mesmerized by drops that looked like delicate snowflakes floating on the cool air. Sunlight thrust through shifting clouds. The winter-brown branches of hazelwood trees glistened. The trees wore bumpy nodes, slick and shiny from the rain. The bumps, not yet buds, soon would be.
Spring comes early to Northern California. Although there would be more winter to come, it would be intermittent. Once the buds begin, there is no returning to winter.
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