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  • Sharon White


Updated: Feb 22, 2020

I admit it. I have red lily bug blood on my hands this morning. Or at least I did a few minutes ago. I actually have Asiatic lilies blooming here this year, light pink, flashy orange, creamy linen. I've pulled up lilies that are covered with the shiny red beetles and squished the bugs against my thumb.

On my walk this morning along the edge of the brook I found a nest. It’s woven tightly with spider silk and split twigs and hay. The section that supported the nest on a branch is filled with tiny pieces of birch bark and little leaves. The nest is as big as a demitasse cup. Or my thumb pressed against my index finger. I watched my mother do an exercise like that yesterday in occupational therapy. Cindy, the therapist had her touch her thumbs to each of the fingers one after the other. She passed with flying colors--whatever that means. Mom's speech is returning, she can retrieve more and more words from her healing brain. Or at least that's what her speech therapist calls the process. I like this way of thinking about things. The words just waiting in their corner of the brain until my mother fishes them up like jewels. Aphasia is tricky and we keep hoping that mom's progress will continue.

The kingfishers have a nest somewhere in the thicket. I watched them this morning--the sooty, glowing blue of their feathers and the more than white band around their necks. One kingfisher sat a long time on a branch near me as I stood on the narrow bridge over the brook. This is his home, his place of water and thicket and sky.

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