This New Morning

Finding Words as the Sun still Rises

 
Early morning sunlight falls bright and quiet in a long, narrow band across the south end of the pasture, and breaks through the smallest of gaps in the treeline to the east, spotlighting small scenes in a dappled pattern around the farm yard. Songbirds and roosters join the sun in the announcement of a new day's beginning, a large, loyal dog lays at my feet, and I refill a coffee cup and put off composing the new week's To Do List as I still search for the right words to describe events from Friday until today.

Where is the best start, how does the middle fill in? What image can properly express? 

Phrases fight for the right to be uttered in answer. 

Feelings elude capture, ramble upward through a tight throat, and tear by tear both soften and sharpen the eyes that still look for the best apple branches and tenderest new sunflower shoot to pluck. 

Moment by quiet moment time continues. 

The single light stream now unites with enough others to flood all but the furthest north strip of pasture with golden proof of this new morning. 

The distinct scent of B vitamins still lingers, but the frequent quick glances through the stall gate now reveal what we don't want to fully accept, as we mechanically move through the weekend's morning and evening milkings. And so this morning, I delay.

Friday night we prepare for an evening escape, hurrying through chores and rushing to town to sit on church steps and watch tractors and American Legion and fire trucks and local high school band march by. The Sunflower Festival brightens our spirits as we scurry back home between parade and fireworks to finish the last of the day's chores, milking. 

We bring you leafy green tidbits and create a new stall buffet, but you are not hungry tonight. We help you stand and get blood flow to your tired legs. We speak softly as we tell you we love you, and we leave you to rest as we drive back to town to sit on the lawn across the street from the school and watch brightly colored sparkles boom and crackle and light up the darkness for somewhere around 40 minutes.

We return and bring you fresh water infused with electrolytes, and our hearts soar high on hope as you greedily drink. We fall asleep in the arms of new optimism.

Waking first Saturday morning, I tiptoe downstairs to start coffee and open the door for the dogs' morning romp. I brush my teeth and quietly slip out the door, across the yard to the barn.

I look for your determined dark eyes looking back at me as I enter the cool morning quiet of the barn. 

But it is only silence that returns my greeting. 

I fumble with the stall gate and gently kneel next to you. 

"I'm so sorry, our beautiful girl!"

Sobs threaten to awake still sleeping Farmer Husband even from across the yard, and I struggle to both let it out, and collect it, wanting more than anything to give even a few more moments of hopeful bliss to him. 

I sneak back into the stone cottage, but hear telltale sounds he has awoken. 

I can't hide it from my face as he enters the room, and he looks at me and knows. 

He holds me as the sobs shake my shoulders.

 We allow ourselves a cup of coffee as we summon courage. Without speaking, we let morning chores wait while the tractor is started and the hole is dug.

We know you'll rest best near the Rose Garden.

 And the weekend unfolds, and we move through chores and commitments that include a balloon launch from in front of our church as Sunflower Festival begins to conclude. We've signed up to bring baked beans and potato salad, but this month store-bought will have to do, and we leave the potatoes purchased earlier in the week untouched in the unopened bag, and find comfort in small moments as we join our brothers and sisters in comforting those in need in our community, like we do the third Saturday of most months.

But this is no ordinary third Saturday of the month, and as I photograph the balloons floating up and away at the launch, I let go of my own red balloon, and my heart whispers to you, "Goodbye." 

And I fight with denial that this perfect summer morning in July is when you had to leave us.

The tears mostly obey and acquiesce, except for when they do not, and I walk into the barn and free a few more of them as I look into your daughters' eyes. I look back through photographs that have captured some of the best moments we were given with you, and I know that your old buddy Rose will meet you and lead you to the best pasture beyond.  

And as the sun sets on the first day without your bright eyes looking up at us, the first of the delicate pink bee balm flowers open, the farm is blanketed in the cleanness of the early afternoon rain that fell, and I look for reasons to smile without guilt as life still baas and chirps and grows on across the farm.

Sunday morning comes, and now Monday.

The 26 other faces in the barn wonder where Momma is this morning as I sit, well past normal morning chore time, and try to write a worthy goodbye to you. It rambles on, as do the minutes, and the right words still elude.

I wonder how one black-faced spice-colored goat could have possibly made off with so much of my heart. 

And I look for courage and determination like yours, our beautiful Spice, as we decide to keep on moving forward, denying defeat a victory, on this new morning.