A Walk in the Dark

“It’s perfect for walking,” said my daughter last night, and that was enough.

We emerged without coats and scarves for the first time this year, out into the quiet street, under a dark sky, clear enough to see sparkles and clusters of vivid stars. Above our house, the Big Dipper was pouring out something—she said cheese, but if so it was the invisible kind. As we walked south toward the courthouse at the center of town, we could see Orion standing over us, guarding the street, and when we passed the little bridge into the next block, a tabby cat joined us, first circling, then pouncing and bounding ahead. He accompanied us to the end of that block, then reluctantly let us go. The air was March cool, hinting of spring and warm, whispering breezes; all the bare, white tree branches looked hopeful against the night sky.

So we walked on for a mile or so, talking about school, art studios, small towns, and the idiosyncrasies of the whole human race, because sometimes a girl and her mother just need to talk. Then we turned our back to Orion and headed home, where the Big Dipper was now pouring out music-- loud, lively strains as my son fiercely practiced on the piano. His chords and clusters of notes ricocheted off all the living room walls and escaped out onto the front lawn to greet us, where, oddly enough, they didn't even ripple the evening's quiet peace.

Today, I called my mom. We chatted for an hour about jigsaw puzzles, crocheted bedspreads, bread machines, and all the rest of the family. Sometimes a girl and her mother just need to talk.