margaret erhart
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orange blossoms

3/22/2022

5 Comments

 
Picture
On the way home from the hospital I take the long way. It’s only long because I drive at 15 miles an hour, all four windows down, enjoying the warmth of a March night down in the Valley. There are dozens of citrus trees on this street. Not as many as when my friend Ann brought me here years ago, but still many. Their trunks are painted white and shine in the dark.

The scent of orange blossoms comes to me as I travel down the road, leaving behind the mechanical noises and smells of the hospital. Ten hours in that building, yet I’m in no hurry to get back to the house where I’m staying. This is fifteen minutes of pure sensation. I feel suspended, timeless in the city at night, the air warm and the orange blossoms of an almost piercing sweetness. It’s one of the rare times today of feeling no responsibility to anyone, and I need it to last a little longer.

I know people who drive, who love driving. I never really have. I knew a boy in college who took out his anger on the highways around Hartford, Connecticut at night. He’d jump on Interstate 84 and get his old Chevy up to a hundred and cruise along for an hour or two at that speed while he screamed. My mother loved to drive. She had a map in her head of all the old turnpikes and parkways around New York City, and she preferred these to the newer, more efficient highways. She preferred the green and spacious roadways, the roads less traveled, and when I sat in the passenger seat I could feel her relax behind the wheel, her body moving with the car as if the road beneath us were a broad band of water.

Tonight I’m aware of time being precious. Time with Ann, who is in the hospital after a terrible fall on her face. That time is precious. And this interlude between the mechanical and emotional world of the hospital with its ventilators and DNRs, its glaring lights and calls for a Code Blue; this interlude between that and the confused little dog at home, Ann’s 7-pound pup who fought off the paramedics and firemen who arrived to pick Ann up off the street; the interlude is precious. I relax into it. The neighborhood opens around me and the darkness enfolds me. The sound of the tires and the breeze created by forward movement. All the space in the world and an awareness of it. The heavenly scent that lasts for thirty days, a moment, then is gone.
5 Comments
lucy watson
3/23/2022 05:57:19 am

Margie, such a beautiful note about your friend, your response to crisis and the long drive home in the car, in the heart and soul. I will be thinking about you and your friend. I can only imagine what a great comfort for your friend to have you there. Nothing like having someone nearby who loves you when in the hospital. xoxo

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Keek Mensing
3/23/2022 07:27:16 am

Prayers for you and Ann.

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Katherine
3/23/2022 11:21:11 am

Holy shit! Sigh. It's hard to stay in the knowing it's all holy. Blessings on the orange blossoms, on Ann on you.

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grua
3/23/2022 12:39:38 pm

Oh,Margie, I know that frantic drive all too well. My heart aches for you, for Ann, at the ferocity of a 7 pound guard dog— the best kind of guard dog, by the way—reminds of a little white guard dog named Leonard who protected you from pretend rescuers ❤️
A big, long hug to you and our dear Ann— kiss her on the forehead for me.
Breathe in the orange blossoms, breathe out the sorrow.
Love you all (especially Pip)

Reply
Carolyn
3/23/2022 01:08:26 pm

Ann's fortunate to have such good friends and an overprotective pup. I'll add her name to the Green Gulch well being ceremony list here at Green Gulch. I'll think of you both as I walk down the farm road soaking in the beauty of the crab apples blooming in the garden.

Know that you and Ann are both deeply loved.

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