Altered

I had known her like a lover — the curved slope of her spine, the embrace of a shoulder’s bend, the cool pause of shaded breath. She was my solace, my companion in meditations, my inspiration for poems (and two books).

But it’s been years since we spent time together — she, the two mile loop along the backside of the preserve, and I, her loyal, adoring visitor for some ten years.

I blame it on my knees, say I can’t and shouldn’t.

I blame it on the storm that left her forever altered.

But the truth, I suspect, is that I am altered.

The woman who walked that path and heard the voice of angels…sometimes…has been, for years now, hobbled.

Hobbled by grief. And disappointment. By the other storms that swept through and changed the landscape of what I knew as my life.

I am no longer that walking woman in the same way the woods are no longer what they were when we shared precious time together.

And so this morning, we bore witness to that. She, at seven, was cool and quiet as I walked our familiar path for the first time in four years.

Did she notice, I wonder, the changes in me like I did in her? Her overgrown spots, the pockmarks, the diseases slowly taking over, the things that no longer serve her. Or me.

Did she mourn the losses in me as I did in her? Tears or raindrops, who can tell.

Did she our change for what it is — inevitable, unpreventable…necessary?

Was she as glad to see me after all this time — as I was her?

Photos & essay @2023, Jen Payne. If you like this post, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.