LARK ASCENDING

I stand in the opening of the garage in my home in Vermont, chucking balls for the border collie to chase. The yard is veiled under a heavy blanket of leaves, the amber and bittersweet tinge of fall’s bruising. I’m wearing winter fleece under my rain jacket. The dog doesn’t care about the cold or the soaking rain. The shifting late afternoon light catches a faint stain in the concrete, where my son last parked five years ago. This deluge has cloistered me. But I need to move beyond the long private pass, breath fresh air, lift my spirit. I drive to a nature preserve, harness the dog, and grip the leash as if it’s the only thing left to hold onto. It’s 5:00 PM. The cold feathers my spine. I don’t want to step into this darkness. Is this baptism worth suffering for…?

On this day in 2020, just after I prepared the house for my sister’s arrival, my son has hugged me goodbye and says he’ll plan supper. COVID has cancelled Halloween so I hike the nature preserve with my dog. Tuned to a radio app, a beautiful pastoral composition sings from my pocket— “Lark Ascending” by Vaughan Williams. Violins resonate in rising and drifting motion while starlings undulate in the fading light, like a dark veil. My son has already risen into the firmament, but I don’t know this yet. What I know is that he will love this music. I pause in the meadow, pull out my phone, and tap the title into a note. The October sky blushes over a nearby field, where a herd of banded cows rush toward the pale with their throaty bellows, scouting us with their big black eyes. They don’t know about larks, only fences and boundaries and meadow and mountain and hoof and breath.

The earth tilts toward darkness and I quicken my pace to loop back. Stones scrape against the tread of my boots. Leaves dapple the path ahead like copper coins cast from a heist, masking my impression. The citrine sun illuminates an opening where the silhouettes of two massive junipers vignette a tinting reflection. The way out is longer than anticipated and I cannot outstep the glow sinking into the mirror pond. I think my son has returned home with a bag of groceries, perhaps he’s slicing onions, draining clams, tempering cream. Anxious to share the splendor, I prepare to text the photos I snapped with a note of my return, idling in the unpaved lot. But I don’t. Instead, I think of sitting together, scrolling through photos, listening to violins, holding the beauty.

… I return home to unfurl a line across the verge, so no goblins and fairies with a sweet tooth ring the bell. No Jacko-lanterns or violins or mask. I want to light a fire, curl under a soft blanket, thaw leftovers, and write this story.