Safely Graze

or waddle across the street

After dance class a handful of us stick around and talk. We are an “all the things” group of friends, this crew. Close to a decade I’ve known them and nobody’s stopped talking yet. My favorite times are the summer Sunday nights when the pool stays open after our dance class and we all dash over, chasing every drop of summer we can get.

Those times don’t happen too much because we are in what’s known as the sandwich part of our lives and for many of us, it’s the kind of NYC sandwich with way too much pastrami. Still, we are a live it up, live to the fullest, here for the party kind of folk and I’m happy to know them.

This past Sunday there weren’t all that many of us but it didn’t make me sad. I am never sad when I’m dancing. There could be nobody and there could be 5,000 with me. If I am dancing, I am happy. Nonetheless, as introverted - and maybe reclusive - as I am, there is a vacancy I feel when I don’t hear these women’s voices. It’s a vacancy that comes with gratitude for knowing them. For knowing their stories and that they know mine. For knowing that we’re not done knowing each other.

Driving home that evening, I was stopped in a mild gridlock with about 15-20 other cars because fifty geese were walking across the street. I counted because I had the time to and also because I’d never seen this many at one time.

A couple of bicyclists rode ahead to warn cars. A woman got out of her car and gently zig-zagged behind the geeese, giving them a tad bit of urgency to their journey across the street. I wonder how she knew to zig-zag, or how the geese were threatened enough to pick up their pace, but not enough to turn around and attack (she wouldn’t stand a chance). Many clapped and shouted, “Hooray!” when the last goose hopped onto the sidewalk.

It isn’t small, what happened. These days, fear, rage, sorrow - all of it sits on us like Mt. St. Helen’s and who knows when one of us will erupt. Who knows what will happen then. But some of us still know how to help others to safety. Some of us are still willing to try.

At home, Jesse was making zucchini black bean tacos with a cilantro-lime dipping sauce. I swiped a tortilla chip in the sauce and told him about the geese.

“There were fifty of them,” I said. “I counted!”

He flipped a habenero-lime tortilla in the skillet and laughed. “That’s been happening more and more lately,” he said, flattening the taco with a spatula so it would get crispy. I cannot tolerate anything soggy or mushy. I’m glad he knows these things about me.

I’m also glad I saw the geese. I’m glad someone helped them even if the geese didn’t know they were in danger. I’m glad they were all together, keeping each other company, no matter what they were all headed for.