letting go

I’m learning slowly:  Holding on hurts. Holding on makes me angry. “Let go and be free,” a friend told me in a dream a few years ago. I’m still figuring out what he meant.

Tonight, for the first time all summer, I was lying in the hammock that Alex put up for my birthday. It was dusk and Bea and Thomas were playing soccer. The white of Bea’s nightie and the light patches of the ball glowed as the sky came down. No more lightening bugs. Still a few diehard mosquitoes. The leaves on the big maple above, holding on to the last bit of green, spread above me.

“This is all I need,” I thought.

Then I spotted the little crabapple tree.