Zsolt said good morning early asking when he would see me. Of course he may have been barking at the propane delivery. I doubt they begin rounds before 5. Ruger has abandoned his watchful place in the hall to seek the companionship of the other 2 and the comfort of their beds.

     I wasn’t sure she would emerge from the tall grasses as I prepared pizza last night glancing out the window. At first, all I could see was her brown back. She stood for the longest time looking like a statue looking downstream at something beyond my view. She peered towards the house to see if the three would disturb her peace, to see if Zayne would come flying over the fence. No sign of a fawn. It could’ve been there in the tall grasses beside her.

     Tired from trying to arrange me so I didn’t hurt, I fell asleep. It was light. I was holding a baby when Zsolt barked waking the house to ask, “Is it time to get up?” QUIET let him know I was still here, not a very comforting response. Better to have said, “Soon. Let me get dressed. Let me find something to sooth this stinging mosquito bite that arrived on my arm last night. I Love You.”

     After I had shut down and unplugged computer, printer, television, phone; after I closed the umbrella, after I brought in 2 plastic owls, the snow brush, a light, things from the deck that would easily be taken by the wind, the warned thunderstorm darkened the skies. I locked the door, left the curtains open to watch the storm because thunder scares me. Another night, another reprieve. How many storms warned will never reach me?

     It looks unfinished, it’s not perfect, it should be a different color, maybe flip it horizontally, no that doesn’t work, try hanging it upside down. Not everyone sees the same angles shapes and lines. We all have our favorite colors. For me, art doesn’t have to make sense. Art is messy, unusual, unscripted, unplanned, incomplete, out of order, undefined; not confined to the teachings of others. It doesn’t fit except with me. Pieces that make me smile, that excite me are seldom received with the same acclaim. Art can never be finished -- the artist primes another canvas with experience, at times recreating the same theme as memory shapes change.

     After twenty-eight years together, a diagnosis of cancer joined north and south in marriage. How Atlanta Georgia and Manhattan New York came together is not this story. It is not remembered who made the coffee eight years ago this morning in Potter County Pennsylvania. Remembered is passing through security at the Galeton Courthouse, July 3, 2017, to apply for a marriage license, before passport or Real ID requirements. It was a sunny day with clouds, perhaps a shower, according to weather history. Early for our 1:00 appointment with the Clerk of Orphans’ Court to marry us, we waited in the Jeep-- decided not to exchange rings as part of the ceremony. At times I lost my voice repeating words spoken, holding his hand, looking into his eyes. Three months later his diagnosis.

     Fluttering red ribbons on a lace-covered book puzzle, stop me on my way down the hall towards my desk, coffee in hand, grahams in my pocket (wrapped), the three following at a distance. It’s just the fan in its side-to-side revolution rousing them.

     No one was sleeping or standing in the clearing. Nothing swam in the pond. Just me and the three in a sheet of cool morning air. A cup primary blue welcomes drops of coffee. It is quiet. Soleil has not heated the molecules of humidity making it hard to breathe.

     It seemed a flashlight shone on windows; perhaps a flood light or head lights staying longer than the short time lightning would have lit them. Ruger casts long shadows walking through the light shining from the refrigerator ice maker; it will diminish when I replace the water filter.

     Fog silvers the air softening dark green leaves not disappearing gray trunks that hold them. It is the beginning of July, not the half-way through the year mark. This day marks the anniversary of a friend, marks someone’s birthday, marks someone’s first day on the job. It is a day of firsts, a day of memories, as all days are.

     Soileil met my eyes as I opened the door to a trio of voices muffled by heavy air. Time to apply flea and tick preventative to the three, to count days before the next application. Dew sparkles the car. Spider threads cross the yard, fly in the air as if attached to nothing.

     A Northern Flicker drums. I begin the motion, almost setting my cup, until a raindrop catches in the web strung between the metal table and closed green umbrella. There is no music. Soleil does not look in my windows nor walk through leaves.