This Side of the Hill

It's late in the afternoon when the storm rushes through.  There's a rumble of thunder and the skies open with a fury, rattling the azaleas and crashing through the crepe myrtles.  In a matter of minutes, the gutters are running with pollen colored water and for a little while the air is clean and fresh, the heat momentarily broken.  It's a passing spring storm and neither it nor the relief it brings lasts long.

The little dachshund - freshly bathed, groomed and manicured - crawls into my lap with a sigh and is almost instantly fast asleep.  The kitten is only a few seconds behind, snuggling against him with a self satisfied expression and kneading his belly.  Their friendship is a constant surprise to me.  They share their space easily, sleeping together and grooming each other and when they play, they play hard and enthusiastically, chasing each other through the house with wild abandon and joy.  The other animals, particularly the cats, watch cautiously and usually from a safe distance.  Now, as the rain echos on the roof and sheets against the windows, the little ones find corners to curl up in and nap.  The wind picks up and howls briefly, the crepe myrtle shivers.

The next morning, Easter Sunday, the sky is grim.  It's chilly and gray and not long before I hear the start of another rainstorm.  I wake feeling creaky and old, my joints aching when I move.  This will be the year I began to feel my age, I think to myself.  Nothing major, just the dismal realization that I'm not nineteen anymore, that things are not as easy as they used to be.  If I sit for too long, my muscles protest when I get up.
Kneeling to put away the catfood means I have to pull myself up.  Just unloading the groceries gives me a feeling of fatigue in my lower back.  My upper arms tire holding my camera and without my glasses I might as well be seeing the world through the bottom of a Coke bottle.  After tending the animals, I ease back into the warm bed and pull the covers up to my nose.  The little dachshund snuggles close, I can feel his breath on my hair and the small brown dog settles down on the pillow above my head.  I can't move my legs for the weight of the cats but I don't mind so much.  When I shift sides and burrow deeper, my shoulders and knees ache with the effort.  I remind myself that it could be worse.  Very much worse.  Age clarifies our design flaws in a way I find disagreeable and unpleasant.  It's a gradual slowing down process, a reminder that I should've been kinder to this broken down old body.  After a nap, I throw the covers aside and get to my feet.  Gently.  Slowly. Not easily. 

As the day wears on though, the stiffness eases some and I begin to feel less constricted and achy - not nineteen, sadly - but at least still on this side of the hill.  The rain stops in midday and I notice just how green everything seems to be.  The azaleas are in full bloom and the air damp with scent, the leaves on the backyard trees are beginning to obscure the sky.  It's full spring, a season of renewal and even though my weary, old bones may not completely agree, a season of hope.

There is always a storm.  There is always rain.  Some experience it.  Some live through it.  And others are made from it.

Shannon L. Alder