WEST WINDS

   I  took one of my cemetery walks the other day, and for the first time, I felt sad. Not just the usual melancholy, which I often feel on my strolls among the dead. That feels ok; it's a melancholy that's mixed with gratitude and mystery.  No, this was glistening eyes aching chest sad.   It was a sunny morning; the tombstones had hard edges, and threw crisp shadows onto the grass. Young men in bright yellow vests rode their stand-up mowers with abandon through the rows of markers. Contemplating the green expanse, cut through by paths and roads, I felt the beat of my heart and the pulses of my muscles and the songs of the birds. Way at the top of the hill, at the far boundary of the cemetery, I could see two parked cars, and the canopy put up to shade the arriving mourners. I couldn't see the sharp dark rectangle I knew was up there waiting for the guest of honor.    I followed a path past the big iron BPOE elk...

 R evisiting your hometown after decades of absence is a bit like meeting up with a long lost lover. The details that once delighted you bring a new joy on rediscovery: bliss recaptured! Then you begin to notice the changes, and wonder what you missed in the intervening years. Wistfulness bubbles up; curiosity, wondering, what if?  I recently spent an afternoon walking through my old hometown of Fillmore, from the hills in the east to the western flatland. Even as I approached the town, my heart beat faster. A bright sun shone down on the surrounding mountains, shadowed by blue ridges, skirted by rows of orange trees. Clouds of pepper trees dot the landscape, and the sight of them arouses a longing I can't quite place. A banner greets me as my bus turns on to Central Avenue: "Flower Show, April 14th." Memories, flooding in on a surge of emotion. A sunny morning, little girls gathering up dirt, small branches, flowers, marbles, figurines, and a tiny mirror to create...