Today was our hill walking day, convenient since the park by our house sits in a huge crater. It's a heck of a sledding hill, spacious, and has become a main character in this chapter of our lives, vastly important. We're there every day now; it's the "outting," the daily thing we plan our days around.
On hill days, we walk up and down the steep green dunes for cardio, interlaced with loops around the bowl dodging people, dogs, basketballs, bikers, and stray bubbles desperate mothers are blowing for their toddlers.
"Does she not know that's not a good idea?" I ask the boys, who struggle to put two and two together.
"Nevermind," I say as we head up the hill, our colorful shoes a sight for soar eyes in the sunlight, against the spring grass. We pause at the top, looking down on all the activity, somehow a little askew. If you didn't know, would you know? Or would you miss it entirely, even though it was right in front of you? Would you see what you wanted to see? What you always saw?
Jude pointed ahead. Look, he said, trees. Two trees. Shadows, he said.
It was impossible not to accept this beautiful gift as magical. As though they had appeared there just for us.
What were they before I saw them as they were? Before Jude pointed them out? Blobs? Static? Darkness? Or did I not see them at all? But how could you miss them? Two enormous tree shadows, limbs like skyscrapers projected in front of us, lacy, still,and reaching. Mesmerized, we stood there and watched for a few minutes, silent.
It was like the other day when the leaves blew toward us like so many welcoming hands waving us toward shelter.
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