Echoes are eerie. That’s why I’m a bit heebiejeebie about the echoes I’m getting this week that ring quite clearly of my childhood.
Echo 1 – 6:10 a.m. shuffling down the street near my house in suburbia. I hear a loon calling, and it flies overhead. Low enough for me to see it’s red eye and ridiculously positioned feet, at the far back of it’s body. I grew up as a cottage kid. I equate loons with Ontario summers, sitting motionless on the dock in a cloud of mosquitos, convinced my soft hoots were drawing the loons closer.
Echo 2 – 8:00 a.m. driving to work. Waiting at a stop sign, my eye falls on a Siamese cat, sitting perfect pretty on a front step. We had a Siamese. His name was Puss and he was awesome. He once he caught a chipmunk by the back legs. It gripped his face, both realized if they let go, their game drastically changed. We used to put him in the hammock, all four legs hanging through. He’d just sit there and sway, all limp and easy going.
Echo 3 – 9:30 a.m. Memere calls me at work. First thing she says “Your father would have been 82 years old today. Weird, hey?” My sister and I were born on Dad’s 40th birthday. The running joke is that mom never bought him another gift. She says she would sing, but she just woke up and her voice is all raspy. I suggest she always sounds like that, we laugh, she rings off.
I believe in signs and moments, and pay attention to both. I’ve had several signs I need to be writing again, so here we go.