That summer you fished, back to the world.
It was between you and the ocean, every day.
We stood by the edge of the water on the fortress of granite rock.
The ocean would yield her fruits to you, and you offered yourself as a sentinel between the over and underworld.
Our cat joined us there on the rocks, a large, quiet and friendly animal escort.
It would not do to go about without a guide to the animal realm.
That was a summer of healing for you and we often stood by and joined you.
Standing vigil on the rocks.
Waiting to see if the line on your rod would connect to the world below the waves.
I could end this now and say that we are waiting with you again.
I could say that Antares was in my backyard this morning, over the trees at back of the field, where the forest begins, and it is dark and mysterious like an ocean.
I could tell you that Venus was so bright this morning that she cast shadows on my kitchen floor.
Or, let me tell you, this:
You know the numbers on the keypad that you need to enter to exit the building where you are now? No you don’t. You are not using the door, and you are not ready to leave.
When I entered the numbers last night I realized that I knew them.
I had lived, for years, in a building with those numbers, and my first and most important client lived in a house with those numbers.
But I don’t know what that means.