It’s Monday morning. I’m sitting on my porch and realize it’s quieter than most Mondays. It sounds and feels more like a Sunday, but it’s Memorial Day, the time for remembrance and honor, a day off work and school for many, a day of barbecues and picnics and the kick-off of the summer vacation season for others.
Even though this is a more somber holiday, and in fact I’ve often wondered if it’s appropriate to say Happy Memorial Day when we are honoring people who have died, there is that holiday expectant feeling in the air for me. It happens without intention. The occasional car I hear, I wonder, where are they going? What are their plans this day, this week?
The weather is cool, like earlier spring, so that I could almost use a sweater, as I have goosebumps on my arms. The begonias and Christmas cacti here on the porch seem none the worse for wear, though, after a chillier night and morning.
I love the mornings, the way the young sunlight filters through the trees, the glimpses of pale blue sky. I adore the stillness and quiet, though traffic is picking up, and I hear machinery running across the road somewhere, the occasional human voice and slamming door, then suddenly it’s quiet again for a brief few seconds, which seems right for a day of memorial. I’m alone, yet I’m not. Nature is all around, and its own little sounds of bird call and breeze are comforting and nurturing. The birds know nothing of Memorial Day as they sing and call and chirp and flit from tree to tree, nor the bunny as he basks in the sun over in the driveway, nor all the other little critters in the yard and trees, as Nature goes about another day.
I’m thankful for this day, this time, and for all those who gave their lives to help make this life possible for me.