The Key

Really, Harold deserves most of the credit. I was too immersed in following the wind’s fickle path through the cotton woods-a flirtatious dance through the oval leaves. Closing my eyes, their graceful partnership rustled, a soft surf of air, sky, and earth.

Pulling on my new hikers that morning, I paused to watch the sun tip over the pines, casting surreal shadows across the mismatched coffee mugs on open kitchen shelves. The liquid light of Summer’s last waltz, poured syrupy over pine boughs, sugar maple, and oak leaves. The pine needles glittered green, while tree leaves had begun to deepen, some faintly colored, others burst fully into Fall’s vivid garb. I envied the leaves their grandiose display. Even in their twirling descent, carpeting the forest floor in one last riotous party of death and color.

Harold yipped, pulling me from my reverie. His eyes rounded, comically expressive. A silky terrier mix- poorly docked ears, a stub of a tail, and the most charming under bite. Topped with an unruly mop of reddish gold fur; Harold was what my great-grandfather would have called “a bonnie wee lad” of a dog.

He pounced toward Maude, careful to stay just out of reach of her claw tipped paws. She glared at him disdainfully, leapt to her favorite window sill and began a pointedly grooming her otter brown pelt. Harold had been rescued from a puppy mill-weak and sickly, his first weeks with me had been touch and go. Despite his terrible beginnings, he retained an infectious joy for life and boundless love for all things human. Maude had shown up on my stoop-a bedraggled, shivering kitten.

Harold capered about, turning circles of encouragement as I sighed and stood up. A few more little aches in my knees and jeans a bit tighter, not bad for reaching my middle years. I pulled on my blue down vest, thinking of my friend, long past now. The vest never failed to remind me of her, vibrant and warm, a gift I never purchased but perfect for me. This in-between of Summer to Fall brought a mix of nostalgia and soft grief- soft now, only for the time past, not for the weight of the loss.

I looked down at Harold, whispering dramatically, “The veil is thin today, my friend”. Harold and I smiled together; his, a tongue lolling grin, as I finish the shared joke, “it’s a veil…it’s always thin”…and out the door we went.

As I said, Harold really deserves the credit. I was busy contemplating the mystery of wind in trees when Harold caught sight of his nemesis,

Fat…Red…Squirrel…

Harold lunged, easily yanking his leash from my lax hand, and bee-lined for Fat Red Squirrel. Twenty pounds of predatory fury tearing up the forest floor, a flurry of damp leaves and bits of dried moss left in his wake.

Fat Red Squirrel stood on his haunches, glaring at Harold before scampering up the trunk of the regal oak. Angrily “tut-tut-tutting” at Harold from a low branch, he egged on Harold’s futile yapping. One advantage to living the Northern woods was I did not need to worry about Harold disturbing any neighbors. I took my time strolling to the oak, knowing Harold would be occupied until I could retrieve him.

Harold was still scrabbling at the tree trunk when I arrived. I looked up at Fat Red Squirrel apologetically. Oddly, he seemed to bob his head in acknowledgement, before dashing up the trunk and disappearing into a hollow. As I bent to retrieve Harold’s leash I spotted the corner of a small black book, hidden among the gnarled roots. Strangely, the book seemed in perfect condition. I teased the book out, noticing the velvety cover felt surprisingly warm.

“Curiouser and Curiouser, Harold”, I quoted Alice in Wonderland, as I examined the book. The fathomless black cover glittered, moon-lit mica, or flashed, grackle feather iridescent, depending on how I shifted it through the sunlight and shadow. Held motionless, the book was so unassuming as to be unnoticeable. Only movement, either through space, or across it, as I discovered blowing a few specks of dirt off the cover, caused brief and subtle flashes or sparkles.

I brought the book to my nose and drew in a deep breath. The scent was a medley; springs stone-hidden deep, lilac and clover, star frosted dawns, bee pollen and sun baked breezes. I knelt and held the book for Harold to examine. He stepped, gingerly, toward my outstretched hand and sniffed cautiously. First he froze, twitching his nose. I could see tiny flashes of color and glitter as he snuffled around the cover. The longer he snuffled, the more animated he became, quivering with excitement, his nubbin tail wagging mad patterns. When I stood up, Harold bound after the book, wanting more time to enjoy the clearly delightful scent.

Turning from Harold, I opened the book. I ran my finger down the impossibly pristine blank page inside. Before I could even wonder at its unblemished state; I was struck with the most vivid memory of my mother.

She was crouched before me, a faded red bandana holding back her hair, a delicate, fiery orange Snapdragon bloom held purposefully between stem and fingers. She carefully squeezed the edges of the blossom; puppeting petals opened and closed-a tiny dragon’s mouth. Soon the new dragon was singing in my mother’s silvery soprano. I could feel the hot summer sun. Her clear voice mingled with the sparrows chittering in the forsythia and sonorous buzz of a distant mower, the air smelling faintly grass-cut green - my mother making the flowers sing.

Truthfully, I don’t remember much of the walk back to the cabin.

I remember palming the trunk of the oak, whispering a quiet gratitude. I remember scooping up Harold’s leash and setting off at a quick trot, bursting through the cabin door, startling Maude off her perch. I was desperate to find a pen to write everything I remembered-before I lost the details of my mother to time again.

I rattled through the kitchen drawer shuffling old batteries, twist ties; spare nuts and bolts-all the flotsam of daily life granted the purgatory of a dedicated junk drawer. Nestled between a few small zip ties and dried wine corks I found an old ballpoint pen. Grabbing a scrap envelope from the counter I scratched the pen across the paper until the ink first stuttered, then began to flow.

I placed the book on the kitchen table and pulled out the battered chair and sat down. Already the morning’s memory seemed less. Tatters still floated around-the flower, a few words of a song-but all lacking their previous lucid intensity and detail. Even the book seemed less extraordinary-just a simple black notebook on an old table. Feeling pensive and a bit foolish I opened the cover again. I hesitated, searching for the first word to write.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The moment I touched the battered pen to page was like a kiss waking a thousand dreamers. Memories tumbled over each other-fluttering, swarming, schooling-and the ink felt like silk, spinning cursive tangles and loops to catch and hold them in time.

-My grandfather’s hands entirely enveloping his chipped tea mug-the way he smelled of corn silk, earth, and pine pitch

-my mother’s clear voice weaving folk songs through her guitar cords

-late March rain smells: earthworms, mud and new warmth

-the cool slippery thrill of a leopard frog wriggling in cupped hands

-the rhythmic staccato of the nun’s shoes as she passed by my mother’s hospital room

I wrote all morning, only pausing when Harold whined to remind me there were other things to tend. We still needed walks in the woods and food dishes filled. The cabin still needed dusting and dishes put away.

As days past, the book called softly and I would write. The memories untangled from simple imagery to poems and stories. I grieved again, in words now, my mother’s terrible death and my father’s singular cruelty-of all of the losses of love and hope I had known.

I wrote Harold’s antics and Maude’s marvelous whiskers and the way my grandmother’s hands dipped and tugged each stitch in their favorite old quilt. I wrote of the scintillating hush of midnight snow-and the secrets of foxes and fiddle head ferns.

My weekly trips into town for supplies began to include phone calls to old friends. I started sharing my stories, the spider silk words reaching through time and distance bonding us new again. Bolstered by their encouragement I began to include trips to the library. There I discovered, once typed into the computers, my stories vanished from the notebook and fresh pages appeared.

The librarian took mercy on me one day and offered to help type. I accepted gratefully and noticed she had a beautiful smile. She gave small suggestions and compliments. She laughed or became somber in all the right places.

The librarian suggested entering contests. I began winning small prizes here and there, and once even $20,000 that put new shingles on the cabin.

Typing became coffee and coffee became walks, and walks became dinners, and dinners became long deep conversations by the firelight of the cabin and our first giddy nights together, tasting of wine and promise.

One morning, holding two mugs of coffee, I paused at the door to the bedroom-the light from the window striped across the bed. Maude had curled herself on the pillow, one paw outstretched. Harold had compiled a collection of his favorite toys. Head resting on fore paws, he waited patiently for the librarian to wake.

I knew then, they loved her, and so did I.

I told her the story of the book, the old oak, and Fat Squirrel. She saw the colors and felt the velvet of the cover. The Librarian understood how the book called me, sometimes luminous in midnight hours, or deep to forest mist, or not at all.

She understood, sometimes the stories cracked open old scars and ghosts poured out.

She knew her owns scars and ghosts.

Sometimes, we had to howl alone under the sharp edges of shattered moons, cursing the false lips that had broken them from our dreaming skies.

The last day I opened the book was gray. November trees raked the clouds and the fire struggled to keep gloom at bay. The book cover felt cool, no shimmers or sparks when I blew across it. I opened the book to find full pages. No room to write another word.

I closed the cover and looked at the thoughtfully chewed ink pen I had rescued so many months ago. On a hunch, I grabbed an envelope and ran the pen along the back. The pen was dry. I sighed and the Librarian looked up from her book. Maude was cuddled peacefully in the Librarian’s lap and the Librarian absently stoked Maude’s fur, searching my eyes.

“It’s time” I said.

“Do you want me to come along?” she offered.

No,” I said quietly, kindly, “Harold and I have to close the circle together…ourselves.”

The Librarian and I had discussed this when we noticed the pages filling. I thought perhaps I should drive somewhere new-the desert, a river bank, a fresh meadow.

I decided it was best, polite even, to put the book back where I had found it. The book should choose where to travel next.

The oak was mostly bare, a few straggling leaves clung on branches, desperate not to fall. I brushed away the long fallen ones from the roots while Harold stood guard, every vigilant for signs of Fat Red Squirrel. “This was right”, I thought, placing the book gently back into the roots.

The book needed a new home-a new companion to open and inspire.

The small black book had been the Key-the Key to All -but the Stories… the Stories had been, and always would be, Me.