The blessing of a priest..

Pausing briefly, I snapped this shot of that old tree, stretching gnarled fingers out over the lake like the blessing of a priest.

An almost imperceptible breeze carried faint whispers, laughter and shouts of “look at me Dad!” from ghost images of two little girls, 26 years prior. We lived on that side of the lake then, the opposite now. Little, and everything, has changed. Only the old Cedar appears to be unaffected by time.

Tree monkeys challenged each other, and Newton’s laws. Both girls eager to climb higher, farther out, as I made dad sounds on the ground, urging caution and spinning tales of alligator gangs, lurking just below. Pure entertainment for young primates wearing bird nest hairstyles and favorite T-shirts, food stained and paw marked, that they slept in the night before.

Those girls are grown women now, off on their own.

The tree is somewhat darker this morning, less colorful, solemn with birds staring out over the water like aging snowbirds on condo balconies, gazing out to sea.

Remembering...