At Least They're Committed

Sometimes it’s enough, heavens, more than enough being somewhere that you simply get to listen. Who’d have thunk the gal who rolled her eyes at cranky-ass old people (seriously, rich people still make me ill) a couple of decades ago would so appreciate the elders and their stories now — and those of all the other generations, too.

Yes, a lot of what people share with me is sad — murderous foxes, racoons, bears, weasels and even their trusted pups — but not too sad because we’re talking about poultry here and not, like, soulmates. And you can listen and commiserate because you’ve lost, too, and often I see the same relief in their eyes that last year I felt when I confessed that Max had murdered two of my young girls (not those pictured above, they’re the replacements and they’re kicking butt). Death sucks; it happens.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! We hear that a lot!” I say. They take a breath, their tension releases, their eyes not quite so big. It’s no longer a confession and now a commiseration. We’re in this together, by God, and we’re not giving up. Poultry and bees will save the world! And we shall lead the way! Yep. Watch out. Hope fucking lives.

But the story I walked into today, a non-story and a metaphor for where I have so graciously landed, happened when the rain had paused as the Canadian smoke laid heavily across the concrete platform and there was a business lull and everyone congregated on the wet pavement and someone said ‘album cover photo’ and we laughed and it would have been perfect. If my life — just about me and not about the family who I love and will die for — were an album cover, I would be a small subject in the background looking at the horizon with my hair blowing back as the others stood in the forefront and that would be perfect.