Things That Matter

5/20/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Things That Matter

            There’s not room in my house to keep every little thing. (We pretty much covered the subject of closet space last week.)  Besides, I don’t work well amid clutter, so recently while tossing old journals and notebooks full of scribbles, I came across a writing exercise from some long ago workshop. The assignment was to write about what I would miss when I’m dead. It was thought provoking then, and still is. You know the old verse. “In the midst of life, we are in death.” With Memorial Day approaching, this seems as good a time as any to share some long thoughts.

            When I’m dead I’ll miss the stars. I’ll miss the scent of wild roses, new mown hay, and meadow mint, the clatter of a side delivery rake, and the creak of a windmill turning slowly as dusk settles on the valley.

I’ll miss the call of Sandhill Cranes from so high up that it takes five minutes to spot them; their voices preceding the sighting, then receding on waves of silver sound, and I’ll miss the intense blue of an October sky, the way that huge cottonwood just past the Brownlee bridge seems to turn all gold overnight, Jiminy Cricket’s fiddle among the scent of drying sunflowers, and wisps of fog that hover over the river in the stillness of dawn.

            I’ll miss the bawling of cows whose calves just left out on the trucks, the cry of an auctioneer; the laughter of neighbors in the café after the sale, and even the lonely feeling that lingers on the ranch when you ride back to silence after the last of the mourners have been moved to a distant pasture.

When I’m dead, I’ll miss the scent of wood smoke from someone’s fireplace of a winter evening, the taste of snow on my tongue; lacy bare branches against a brilliant sunset, and frost flowers sparkling on a morning window pane.

I’ll miss the smell of grass greening, the way the moon reflects off a bend in the creek when you’re sitting in the calving lot on a quiet midnight, the sound of mothering up from over by the windbreak fence, and peepers, on the first night that it’s warm enough to sleep with the window open.

I’ll miss fireflies, the feel of dew damp grass on bare feet, the purr of a kitten, the smell of sweaty horse blankets, wet dogs, and the taste of chili, home grown tomatoes, and pumpkin pie.

When I’m gone I’ll miss the feel of fresh sheets, the touch of my husband’s hand, the color red, the softness of velvet, candlelight, old songs of my youth, a crying steel guitar, and Willie Nelson singing Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.

I’ll miss the hugs of grandchildren, laughing at family jokes, driving on moonlit nights, dancing, oh yes, always the dancing; the music of rain on the roof, and water babbling on its way to someplace else.

Will I really miss these? Perhaps not; maybe the sense of them remains through eternity. There’s no way to know, but the main thing is not to miss them now.