It was no small feat to gather the animals and dolls each summer morning to go for my walk in Hugo’s field. I had just enough to fill my brother’s hand-me-down red wagon. But I didn’t place them directly inside, the bottom was too rusty. In my brother’s defense, he didn’t care for “babies,” but hauled tools to build his own scooter in the shed. He was not concerned with the orange residue that could easily ruin a baby’s dress or an animal’s fur coat. To protect their delicate nature, I placed my best blankets from Ben Franklin underneath them. And to protect the blankets, underneath I put sheets from last week’s Alexandria Echo Press.
When everything and everyone was situated, out of rust’s way, off we would go into Hugo’s field. I imagined they were afraid, (only imagining because I felt it myself), so I would sing to them, sing to me. And the music always cleared the path. Even in the overgrown wheat, we walked on, lifted by each note, careful only to clear the way, and not damage the growth (Hugo reminded me of this, and rarely in song.)
Yesterday, for the first time, I heard a choir singing my words. A poem I had written was made into a song. As they sang, I felt the tears of tenderness drop gently on my legs’ goosebumps. With the choral field, I was clear, out of rust’s way.
I don’t know how to save the world, I’m not sure anyone does. But maybe along the way, we could make the journey a little lighter. Chase away the daily fear, with blankets and a song. Never to damage, but continue the path. In my youthful optimism, I can hear the choir sing.
