by Ellen La Penna
I thought I might die today, no reason why, just a feeling …. Tromping through the forest, over and over to mark the borders of death—a new group of beautiful trees to come down. Each one so different, living gods and goddesses, some still crowned with the sparkling red of lehua blossoms.
Friends encourage me in my work, painful bittersweet. The forest puts up with my measuring and weighing, as I look for vibrancy or weakness in its towering loveliness. Over and over—yes, I’ll take this one—only to look up, to see another unique shape of staggering green majesty. My heart falls, how can I take such precious life to make room for my own?
Arriving home, a letter has come from my beloved oldest sister. The miracle of our recent reconnection is here again—this time with an antique, handmade Valentine, signed with a thick wooden pencil. I can see her as a child, carefully making out letters to sign her name and that of our now deceased sister, Pam.
As I open the card, I hear a rustling in the open space that is my front yard. The mouflon are back— how odd, their arrival in the early evening. One stares, watches me while his ladies browse the lava desert floor. Another rarity, the little stray cat appears and watches them nearby, amazed. Then there is a hawk, which I’ve never seen here. It circles back very close to the porch where I sit. Now, I see, it’s really an owl, silent. This evening, a kaleidoscope of miracles.
My sister writes that she is finally ready to let her heart heal from the breaking that was Pam, and that bottomless family tragedy. Somehow, my letter helped open that door. Everything is unknown and somehow crystal clear—I can’t imagine a more powerful grace than this moment.
Ellen LaPenna is a freelance writer and editor whose poetry has appeared in three New Mexico anthologies. She now lives in rural Hawaii.