Those Orange Stripes


As they cleared the cars from the driveway below, I walked down from the studio and Cean asked if I could spot him on one side as he would back-up, blindly on the steep driveway, with hand signals. As he walked down the driveway I motioned with my hand toward my ear, “shouldn’t we just be talking to him,” unable to find the right word for headset or speakerphone or anything resembling communication. But the sign language got the point across. As Trin called him on the speakerphone he was confused at first as to why she was calling. As we talked him through it, first my way, then her way, the last phone call while their furniture was still on the property traveled, the three of us connected by movement and direction.

I wasn’t ready for them to leave — even though it was clearly time for them to live on their own. They’d been so close, and yet I’d been so far away.

And so it was true, then, as personally as it had ever been, that these seasons surrounding eclipses were often frequently visited by moving trucks. Those orange stripes days of nostalgia and excitement and unexpected feelings when things change.


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