I really wanted to use the word higgledy-piggledy to describe this bridge...
After last night’s downpour, the waterways surrounding our 13-acre property are all a-roar. Reeds Brook, down the steep gully at the back of the field, is doing a good imitation of a spring torrent after ice-out. Even the little rivulet that tumbles down the south side, the outflow from the pond, is making a merry rush as it hurries under our higgledy-piggledy, moss-covered, half-collapsed bridge. These water songs are not sounds of winter, a brief reprieve.
The external rushing reflects my interior. On the threshold of Thanksgiving, a gathering of seventeen, I’m escalating into a familiar state of high intensity, like a tornado in the gut – rushing, rushing to ensure that all are things and people are arranged and accounted for. What have I forgotten? What am I not thinking of? But wait…I’m not hosting. For the first time, Jonathan and I will be guests at the home of one of our children for the Thanksgiving feast. Nevertheless, old habits die hard. I have pre-bedlam anxiety. With baby Fiona thrown into the equation, this will be a major feat of logistical and emotional management. As my friend Jean would say, just breathe.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 90: 192 words, TOTAL = 15,178; 44,822 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families.