How can
I describe how I came upon her, walking quietly in her wooded neighborhood, one late afternoon?
Somewhat
lost in the backwoods of Shutesbury, unable to discern one direction from
another, no road signs, virtually no inhabitants, as a brief torrential storm
began, we drove slowly past a small overgrown cottage …peering out car windows through
thick sheets of rain and the sudden summer
wind at two adult Wild Turkeys, and their tiny clutch of babies, huddled
beneath a old crabtree.
Up one
pot-holed road, down another, we veered round corners, gently making our way, no
rush to our destination.
Finally the sky
cleared, and we were surrounded by all living things wetted and thirst quenched, the wetlands and ponds
numerous and wild, a blue heron here, wild ducks there, as we slowly drove
along the rutted road.
I won't
forget her face, as we came upon her, turning slowly toward our approaching car, long of powerful sinew, jeans and a
sleeveless shirt, gangly huge dog loping by her side, her gait of inimical
indifference .
Pulling
up alongside, who were we, slowing and excusing ourselves, asking our
whereabouts?
And look upon us she did, gaze certain and
unyielding as she took us in, nut brown hair cropped inveterately, the two slowing their pace.
And politely
she did give us direction, standing now solid and sure before us , for just one
economical moment.
I did see her, then.Everywhere at home.
There in her forest and its ancient dirt roads, her
canine companion looking guardedly in the car window, a warning in the dark grave
eyes, until we thanked her, and proceeded down the road.
Looking back for a moment, there, the dog did then
relax, returning to her side in communion, as they continued once again.
As we
resumed our own way, I found myself seared with the depth of her grey eyes. The
underscore of stories upon her face, her limbs, her movements. The wisdom of
her four footed guardian.
And, too, the
stippled scars covering the length of her beautiful arms; hundreds of age-old
slices. Each with its own history, its own song, its own telling of a vital
time. You could almost hear, against all of the rules, each time with its
own ancient call and respond.
This so many, sadly, discover, in their distress, and then so many
know not of.
For
there are those who harm and injure, and create this necessity. And then deny
and push off to another land. Leaving behind the object of their tragic
injuries, and all of the unspoken songs and tales and times.
Yet
too, here, all were healed. Every moment expressed, secrets told, and somehow over time, not repeated
again. So the scars and their fissures seemed replete with evidence of a badge of
survival. A brandishing, in those soothing, isolated woods, of certainty, of
restoration.
Mended,
beautifully, the story told, the song sung, the woman somehow triumphed, and
possibly now become whole
Now safe, now accompanied by her protective companion,
deep in these soothing woods. Arms bared to the
trees and the storms and the wind and the heavens, singing their song, and at times, to the occasional passerby.
“Here I
am”, I heard as we drove past,” Witness
me everywhere at home.”
Years
ago, yet I remember her still.
