Moments & Memories

I was the first in our household to wake up that morning last week. I had left my cell phone on a charger in the kitchen, and when I got down there to feed the dog, there was a text message from a friend.

The news was sad but not unexpected. A longtime Waitsburg resident had passed away during the night. His last months had been a struggle. But even when you know it's coming, the end isn't something you can ever prepare for.

It was early, before seven. The morning was chilly but consolingly beautiful, a relief after so many days of harsh winds and stormy rains. There wasn't as much as a breath in the air, just a chill.

I fed Dizzy, then decided to take him to Preston Park for some exercise.

It had hailed the night before. Clumps of winter's last reach (or so we hope) were strewn around the yard and melting on the rooftops along Coppei Avenue. The morning sun fired up the trees on the east side of Waitsburg as we walked to the park.

I thought about our collective loss during the night, then about other local friends and family members we lost during the past year, several quite suddenly and certainly prematurely. Some young, some middle-aged, some older - all leaving behind many in this town who will miss them terribly.

That part is all about letting go. It's also about feeling small and suddenly seeing the big picture or being reminded of it.

Every time it happens, I remember not to sweat the little things and try to set differences with others aside, focus on trying to make this a better place for those we all have to leave behind eventually. You have no control over your time here, just over the way you use it. We stepped onto the grass and I let Dizzy run. I threw a tennis ball for him somewhat half-heartedly as I turned to the sun in the east for answers. I guess I hadn't quite let go yet. But that's alright. Tibetan Buddhists believe the spirits do not let go immediately either,r and there's much prayer that can help them on their way to the Afterlife.

The light came pouring across the levy on the south bank of the Touchet River, hitting the tall gnarled trees in the park and casting long shadows across the dewy ground.

Dizzy ignored my mood, retrieving the ball with gusto and demanding more zest than I had in me for the next throw.

It was bittersweet to see him tear up the lawn and pounce on the ball in a small cloud of stirred-up mist, to see his youthful abandon, to see behind him the distant trucks turn the corner on Coppei on their way to a destination, to hear spring birds in the web of branches etched into the blue of a new day, to feel the day break all around me.

Life continues when we pass. People get over it. The sun comes up the day after. The planet turns. New flowers grow. Commerce flows seamlessly as before.

In the end, we have only moments and memories.

Dizzy and I wandered over to the playground. I don't know why I never noticed it before. Perhaps I wasn't relaxed or receptive enough to see it on previous strolls. There's a park bench with a granite seat and a wooden back close to the playground.

The granite slab is dedicated to someone who has gone before us, and the phrase that goes along with it struck me in the moment as a fitting tribute to the instances that sum of our lives and to the importance of making them count.

"In Memory of Deana Land Anderson: 1937 - 1991," the inscription in the granite reads.

"And in the sweetness of friendship, let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures."

I lost both my parents this past decade. I've lost friends to life's end or life's destiny. I've seen teenagers struggle for survival against cancer. I've seen close friends lose their parents or loved ones.

At that moment in front of the park bench, it all came rushing back like pressure built behind a dam. I realized there wasn't enough time in the day to process all the emotions, to mourn properly.

But it was also clear that somehow it's only the physical reality that changes when others pass on and their presence shape shifts. They remain noticeable in a different way, even if the form of what remains is inside us.

I have all the moments with family and friends stored away in memory to conjure up when I want to search those times for wisdom, pleasure and endearment.

Sometimes, they come back to me without effort, unexpectedly on a spring fragrance or a familiar phrase, an heirloom tool passed down or a question from a new friend.

My mind's eye sees them vividly. I see my dad in front of the living room window, admiring his yard. I see my mother at the end of our bed reading to us from a favorite book. I see my old dog scrambling up a mountainside along our hiking trail. I see a Waitsburg friend in the bleachers at Kison Court. I see another at the jimgermanbar. A third next to the coffee pot at the hardware store.

They still make this town feel alive and make it what it is, like the many pioneers gone before us. They may not have plaques or inscriptions in a public place. Some may not even have a headstone.

But they remain here, and their presence can always be felt.

I gathered Dizzy, who had now been running around for a while, and clipped on his leash. He seemed happy just to saunter as we walked back to the house together, ready for whatever would come that day and seize it.

Imbert Matthee