Thinking About Things

On the corner of Zena and Sawkill Roads, I see a handmade sign that says Everything Will Be Alright. I often talk to myself when I’m driving, so I say out loud, yep. But a moment later I think, well, I don’t know if everything’s gonna be alright for everyone. How ‘bout the people who have lost their jobs recently, children who don’t have enough food to eat, people around the world who hear missiles overhead knowing those missiles are about to land. It’s all too much. But I keep driving, thinking about all the things I can’t do anything about. In no time, I come to the same conclusion I always come to: I can only do what I can do: write a little, sing a little, send some money, make dinner for Brent, tell him I love him. Care.

Thinking about it all, I arrive at my destination: The Woodstock Cemetery where my son Forrest is buried. I try to visit as often as I can. Clip the grass, plant more seed, say hello to him and his neighbors. Look at the sky. Wonder about all the American flags flapping in the breeze, every single one representing a person who’s served, wishing a day would come when no military is needed.

It's always good for me to be back in Woodstock. It’s home in all kinds of ways and I miss it for all kinds of reasons, but I’m never here long enough to see everyone I’d like to see. The only way to do that would be to live here again, and that’s not likely to happen. I don’t want to run around and have short, how-are-you conversations the whole time I’m here. Instead, I sit with a cup of tea on my friend’s screened-in porch listening to a turkey gobbling in the woods, the occasional car passing by, and the silence in between. Wednesday I’ll head south again, spend more time with my dad going through my mom’s things, deciding what to keep and what not to keep. With five siblings, we’ll get the job done and everything will be alright.

The town of Woodstock, NY as seen from the Comeau Property. Those are the Catskill Mountains in the distance.