ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching

Book Two, Chapter 260: Remembering Kisses

Today I do something that’s one of my favorite things to do . . . but that I’ve never done on my own. I lie in the park beneath a tree.

I’ve sat under many a tree these last twenty-one months, but I haven’t felt free to stretch out, to sink into the grass, to gaze up at heavy, crooked limbs, to look beyond limbs and leaves to blue sky and watch clouds disappear like cotton candy. I’ve not felt free to lie beneath a tree to watch the wind move its very top, to take delight in the flight of birds beyond its height.

Perhaps this is a measure of my growing confidence, that I lie beneath a tree without fear that a limb will fall on me or a dog will pounce on me or a stranger will interrupt me or a bug will bite me.

Ernie and I lay beneath many a tree. Once a squirrel dropped its minute scat on us. I don’t remember which of us was hit, but we saw it and felt it. Maybe we even laughed about it.

When did we stop laughing?

When did we stop kissing?

Sometimes, on my way to the grocery, Ernie would accompany me just to the turn in the alley, and we’d kiss before we parted. I think now he accompanied me on a bit of my walk just for that kiss. If I kissed him, it meant I still loved him. He counted kisses. He counted on the kisses. Now, I’d kiss him for no reason and for every reason.

So I lie on the grass, in the sweet shade, pondering the life around me. And the life within me. And remembering kisses.