Feathers

feathers

When I removed the slipcover from our couch cushion yesterday a cloud of feathers burst into the air through a rip in the fabric, and there I stood, bewildered, in the midst of an absurd little living room blizzard. Meanwhile, feather clouds filled the sky, and feathers seemed to set the tone of the day. Feathers, mind you, not purposeful wings, just scattered messy feathers, like a pillow fight gone awry or the remnants of a backcountry battle in the night.

This day is the sad anniversary of my father's sudden death, thirty-eight years ago. I was very young, still standing on the edge of my feather, as the old Buffalo Springfield song goes, expecting to fly, but such is the abrupt end of youth. Today is also Yom Kippur, a contemplative time, the holiest of the Jewish holidays. My mother, the puzzle of whom I shall be pondering for the rest of my life, fasted and kept the spirit of it each year well into her final stretch. I feel a sense of it now, truly sorry for my wrongs, hoping to learn and do better, knowing it may be too late, heavy-hearted. And the worries of the weary world continue, wherever we turn, rendered ever more visible to us all.

Every evening this happens, an arch and promise renewed. Nobody has to notice: a breath crosses the lawn, or outside the window a spirit roams, as mysterious as any wanderer ever was. And it is only the night wind.(William Stafford)