these places still exist
Sometimes I think of silent situations and sanctuaries of particularity. This time my imagination takes me to a small town in the northern part of the state I’m from, Michigan. No one particular town. Simply a tiny spot nestled on a lake next to a larger lake. And when I go there, my mind thinks of a family who has just adopted twins. The couple is older for their first two children. Mid 40’s. They tried for years to have their own, but with no success. They live a quiet life in a relatively quiet town. He’s a doctor, she’s an artist. And their children are lovely and fun and bubbly and the way in which they exist is like the way an oak exists after 84 years even though these babies have only existed for 84 weeks.
The family is still and calm and silent and it’s early evening. There’s orange in the sky and the outline of the edges of shoreline that forms a crescent moon, which they sit in the center of, have turned into dark shadows. And the husband and the wife sit on the porch out front and rock on their porch swing and the babies are on the other side of an open window sitting in two cribs. And the parents sip on cherry wine with no hint of cynicism in the consuming of the tourist beverage that fills every boutique on the main road down the hill form them in town.
The babies don’t even burble or bumble a peep. And the man and the woman don’t say anything at all to one another. But as she rests her head on his shoulder and as the sun sinks its final bit, the light from it illuminates all of the scene. Yes, the weening light illuminates it all. The lake and the neighbors homes and the town below and the boats on the lake and the toes of the babies inside that are peeking out of their baby blankets and the softest kiss in the world the husband plants on his wife’s forehead and the subtle cherry wine mustache above the wines upper lip.