Summer Stalker

My Dear Beloved,

Where has the summer gone? When will you return to slip the scarecrow hanging shirts onto your long limbed frame? I transformed into a stalker. Wearing your t-shirts, walking tree trails, sipping the summer sunsets of Cape Charles, only to find you had already rounded every corner and painted each wall. On the bark of the lemon tree, you carved Rumi’s words saying, “What you are seeking is seeking you.” There is comfort thinking you are still pursuing, longing, and tucking hand written sticky notes into my drawers for me to find at just the right time. Your voice, your scribble, rush like a flood in mundane moments; a kind cruelty of memory that takes a beautiful snippet of time and just stops.

It’s harder now like you promised. With a side eye glance and tip toe phrases, you tried to prep me for the terrain and constantly said I had it harder than you. I said I could handle it, but I realize that was a lie. While not new to you, the clear trills and calls of the Nuthatch song were lost when swinging from the branches. Instead, I latched onto the woo of the mourning dove which lulled me to assured sleep. The upside down Nuthatch clown waited for the ash to settle before pecking vigorously at my eye.

The Avett Brothers’ sweater you wished you were has come unraveled, so I’m learning to knit. Not in the methodical hook and eye kind of way. Instead, it’s the scaffolding of words and ideas which move around like shibori stitches with dimension. I asked your friend Tom the other day about purpose of suffering, and he turned back the clock thousands of years to see who was standing at the water cooler. I was there with Job, who has yet to replace his torn sackcloth, and the Stoics, who wear grunge t-shirts from Target. In my current state of temporal displacement, I found myself comparing notes. My ideas are written on tissue paper, so I hold loosely onto Tom’s consideration of humility.

The aperture has widened recently beyond the normal scope and scale, and someone called me wise a few weeks ago. Not in the “judge in a courtroom” sort of way, but in the “burn your hand on a hot stove” situation. Taken aback, I remember being thirty and asking God for wisdom, and now, I regret it. Wisdom comes with a cost; Exposure, vulnerability, worn out knees. It’s When I Savor Experience that I’m able to see new colors and hear different decibels which only dogs can hear, but explaining it to others is painful and only for certain members of the club. It’s both blinding and piercing at the same time.

This is when I miss you most, friend. (Remember when we wrote an essay on the word “friend,” and how it was the purest seed; glossy onyx, tear shaped, and the thickness of a penny? We planted it next to the Rose of Sharon bush and watched it grow.) Our/my conversations are all one-sided, and people don’t have time for catching phrases in the air and watching the dazzling color of sunlight on each letter. Certainty is king in the land of time commitments, and the mystery store is often closed.

Without your questions, I’m engulfed by books and podcasts; seeking to find your thoughts or ideas on a page to spark a moment of with. Looking for the back and forth, but the ball doesn’t bounce. Until, sometimes it does. Your friend Tom reminds me of how the now beautiful Life is pretty great, and we shouldn’t discard it so quickly. It sounds like you two have been diner chatting over syrupy sopped pancakes again.

The spiderwebs were stretched sticky this morning when I walked the sunrise trail with Carley-bear to celebrate you. Silky fishing lines running from tree to tree got thick and caught my viscous thoughts. How do I remember you today on your birthday? I drank bittersweet coffee you continue to deliver by mail and filled the air with lilies and stock. My memory drove me to Hadestown on boat rides and bike routes and led me to hummingbird cake and caviar eggs with wine and poetry. And, you would have been sixty. Just short and too short.

Our word play poetry magnets came out of hiding when I was looking for stamps. I wrote, and you answered:

The bottom is hard, but I’m moving towards shiny. Breathing in the spirit of God, so God can be God with me, and so God can be God without you here. I’m trekking towards glory because that’s where you are. In the face of it, the midst of Him, and in all its splendor. I hang on this by the French philosopher Pierre Telleart: “We are not human beings having a temporary spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a temporary human experience.” The temporary seems long without you, but I’m hopeful for my current seeking, knowing He is seeking me. And so, I honor you in the woods and think of moving towards joy because that’s where you live, and I long to be near.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Always with.

Kathryn

August 13, 2025