by Kasi Blake
Chapter 7
I was holding tree pose, thinking blissfully serene thoughts about how the deluge of robo-political calls would now be at an end, when the first delicate flakes of snow began to drift past the sliding glass door. There were only a few of them, just a gentle scattering of tiny white dots that skittered two and fro on the breeze, but I knew more would be close behind. The TV stations, barely content to let viewers rest their weary minds for a nanosecond, were now convinced that a nor’easter to end all snowstorms was barreling down on Massachusetts.
I refused to be drawn out of my routine and finished up the remainder of poses in my yoga set. I ended up sitting cross-legged, one hand resting palm-up on each knee, looking serenely out at the suet feeder hanging from the shepherd’s crook. In the summertime a full flowering of day lilies surrounded it, but now the dark green foliage was low and flat. A fine layer of white coated each leaf. A chickadee was nibbling at one of the suet cakes, its black and white body fluffed up against the chill.
Namaste, I offered the little bird, hoping it would find a safe nook to tuck itself into against the coming winds.
I drew on boots and my ski parka, heading outside to my kayak. The tangerine-crimson-gold swirls of the molded plastic were decorated now with a silvery icing. I hefted it by one of its handles, giving it a gentle shake to free it of the snow. Then I walked it around to the basement slider and put it up on its rack. So much for my hopes of one more ride before winter settled in. Still, last year the first powerful snowstorm had struck before Halloween, so we had been given a week’s grace this year.
Everything else had come indoors last week before Hurricane Sandy made its visit, so I was now set for winter. I checked the mailbox, smiling as I found only a few bills. The political deluge had stopped. I headed back in, shrugged off my coat and boots, and went to my computer to check on the status of the world.
Thank goodness. The stridency of the political battle had already faded into the background; the Telegram site barely had a mention of the winners of the various contests. Instead, their new focus was on the coming storm and how it would snarl traffic.
In my in-box was an intriguing note from Matthew. Apparently he’d gotten a call from Jeff, John’s son. Jeff knew of Matthew’s work providing computers to seniors, and he was also aware that his father’s computer had been a recent donation from Matthew. He wanted to return the computer to Matthew so that another senior could benefit from it. Also, he thought there might be some notes on it about John’s history. He was hoping that the three of us could get together and take a look.
I answered immediately, letting him know that I was interested, and asking when he wanted to get together.
I had barely begun to sort through my remaining email when the response came. Three p.m. I glanced at my clock. That gave me an hour to get ready.
Perfect, see you then.
