Yakima Spring

The wind howled down from the mountains.  We’d been up to those mountains, more than once.  White pass, snow and elk.  We had an old car, with bald tires.  We didn’t know better, or perhaps it was we didn’t care.  But we crossed that pass to visit some friends in Tacoma.  They were the same age as us, and more responsible.  We were babies, both children of tyrants, both children with a child.  And there we were, our baby six months old.   The pass was bare when we drove over, a blizzard on the way back.  We bought chains at Sears and headed home.

But it was spring that impressed me.  Chilly mornings with smudge pots smudging up the sky.  Or irrigation watering the orchards, or wind machines.  Anything to warm the trees enough to keep the blossoms on.  Jack and I would stay in bed long.  It was the way it was then, sex, sex, and more sex.  He was delivered to god through sex. That’s an interesting way to put it, but I understand now that it was his way to feel the presence.  Sometimes on those early spring mornings we’d sit in the hot tub and watch the sun rise through the mist of oil burning in smudge pots.  Sounds weirdly polluted, but there was a good feeling about it all.  A life affirming feeling–fruit will stay on the trees.

~ by posyflowers on March 29, 2008.