Dear Peter

Yesterday you came home in an urn, ten inches high. It’s hard to reconcile the amount of space you embodied in life, reduced to a vessel the size of a flower vase.

Your son Pete brought you home from the funeral parlor. We placed you in your man cave, on your desk, since we won’t be scattering your ashes until September.

It does not bring me comfort to see you like this, reduced to particles. Maybe because it’s such a stark contrast to your life and energy and being. The urn is inert, you certainly never were.

I have sent two of our dogs, Crockett and Eden, to live with my nephew and his fiancé in Pittsburgh. Crockett and Eden needed so much more attention than I could give them with five other dogs in the house. Now they get all the attention from my nephew, who works from home. From the photos I have received, the dogs look really happy and my nephew loves having them. He even bought Crockett a kiddie pool to play in.

I forgot to close the chicken coop one night, and we lost 2 more birds. My incompetence in chicken care has gained new heights. Now we are down to three which I have decided to name, despite the fact you and I never named the birds. The two remaining Lavenders I call Thelma and Louise, and the Well Summer is known as The Frau. She has really gone feral, living in a tree, and refusing to eat chicken scratch. I hope she changes her mind when winter comes.

The Oriental lilies are blooming, filling the air with their aroma. But it is so hot in this heat wave, that the blooms are not lasting long. When I go out to feed the chickens in the morning, the heavy air is filled with the lilies’ scent. You loved smelling the lilies in the morning. You’d always say, “intoxicating!”

I am watering a lot. Sometimes every evening to keep the veggies, herbs, flowers and your cannabis alive. It’s strangely healing to be in the garden before dark, blend of water with earth, essential elements, that you understood so well. I can see you in your wide-brim hat, leaning over the plants, feeling the soil, reading the leaves, listening to the vibrations.

I can see your hands, your bear paws, covered in dirt, you are bare footed, grounded by the soil, the plants, and the water from the hose. You kneel beside the watermelon patch, marveling at the miracle of flower to fruit. Remembering when the watermelons were seeds you soaked and planted.

Sometimes I’d join you before dark just to smell the air of the garden and admire the efforts of your labor. Or help with weeding and harvesting vegetables. Often times we would stand there quietly together, no words necessary. The garden spoke for us.

I wish you could see the garden now, maybe you can? But I don’t feel your presence like I did the days after you passed. I know you have transitioned on and that’s a good thing.

I found a quote from the Buddha that I am leaning on at the moment: “Happiness will never come to those who fail to appreciate what they already have.”

I’m working on it.