Somewhere Between

May 18, 2025

When we got out of the car and were walking along the main street of Erin toward Mad Hatter's Café, I heard the sound of rushing water behind a thickly screened fence of trees. It was either an underground river, or a really loud air-conditioner.

The fence of trees ended at the yard of an old white corner house. I needed to see behind the house to find out what that sound was. We looked past the corner lot, and up the street was a bridge. Two enormous work trucks were idling on either side of it; hot, black, fresh asphalt glistened in the heat of the summer morning.

Marcy and I stepped past the first truck and onto the bridge. Over the rail on the left was a dark green waterfall. The water rushed past darkly and smoothly; the mystery of the sound solved. The river bent away, beyond the overhanging trees and steep banks. It was cool and wet and gloomy. Lovely and feeling like forever.

We crossed to look over the railing on the other side and it was spectacular. The waterfall hammered away beneath the bridge. The river to the right opened up wide and expanded beyond, full of froggy green lily pads and open white waterlilies. A dead tree, like a discarded dry Tanenbaum, lay on its side, marring the vista of Monet-like perfection. We sighed and breathed in. This was the opening of possibilities.

Life has these beautiful side trips hidden up uncharted streets. Little detours to places of rushing water or still pools. I always investigate the sound of water. It is life, always moving, always changing, reflecting—whether it's the sky or a leaf falling or my face peering down into it.

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