The Little Things

 

When you tell a story, be sure to include
the little things: the way you walked past wisteria
the other day, and had to stop and bury your face
in the blooms, such a heavenly scent, and how
it made you remember the pinks and sweet peas
in your grandmother's garden. And you wonder
why none of the nurseries carry pinks any more,
when it is the only plant you want.

Remember to describe how the harbour looked,
that misty morning, with fog and cloud wisping
on Wah'nah'juss, how you had climbed the trail,
and turned, and been flooded with awe and joy
at how beautiful it was, and how happy you were here,
small boats chugging busily across the bay
from Opitsaht, and how you watch
in case a pod of orcas come by, as they do
now and then, and you are so rarely in the right place
when it happens. But you remember the grey afternoon
when a family of greys were at the rubbing beach
off Tlaakasiis, and an eagle landed just feet away
to eat some fishy thing he found onshore.

Our days are made up of such moments,
and they colour our lives with green and sea
and sky. Wherever we are, it isnt the big things:
the promotion, the man you loved so much
who came and went, the things you bought
(and disposed of). It's the memory of grandchildren
giggling wildly in the back seat as their brother's
ice cream fell off its cone and dribbled down his shirt,
and you were driving down the highway 
and couldnt help, so all you could do was laugh
and shake your head, helplessly, at the joy of it;
it's the way Pup would sit, his stare focused
on the grandsons, eating hot dogs around the fire
down by the creek, and the way those gigantic
old oak trees curved their branches over us
in protection. It's the way I looked up at the stars
those late nights, walking old dogs along the road,
the way the lights shone so warm and cozy
inside my little trailer, and how I knew
that I was Home.

I do miss that trailer. I loved it there.