Cold morning

Before dawn I zip a gray sweatshirt over my yellow fleece jacket.  I feel for a flashlight in the tool box near the door, and step outside, leaving man and beast asleep inside the house.

Shoulders square and head high, I walk down the street, fast and clean, like a knife through the cold air.  Stands of mature trees form spreading pools of black shadows between the street lamps.  I move quickly, my feet making a thud-plop rhythm as I pass the lawns and driveways of the neighborhood.  I see no people or cars, and even the dogs are silent on this cold morning.

As I turn onto Dubuque, I hear the first bird call of the day, but it dies in the air, unanswered.  I do not hear another until I climb the hill on Borini Drive.  There is only the sound of my feet, thud-plop, thud-plop. On a distant cross street, the darkness is punctuated by a sharp brightness, headlights perhaps, or a flashlight.

As I  turn onto Claxon, small songbirds stir, chirping and trilling.  Then I turn onto Cheshire, and head home.

People say that we are born alone and we die alone.  But that is not the case.  As life begins, we are born warmed by our mothers' hearts, sheltered by her body, and welcomed by doctors, midwives or relatives.  We are connected in soul and psyche with our mothers for several months in earlylife, and slowly grow to understand that we are separate beings. 

At death, who can say.  Perhaps we are drawn to a great light, becoming one with all existence.  Or at our last breath, we may be greeted by our guardian angel, wrapping her ghostly wings around our shoulders to guide us.

But between birth and death, we are often alone, walking briskly through the cold shadowy morning, seeing no one, and listening to the sound of our own footsteps.