Losing Balance

On our way to the Stone Door, my friend talked about her elderly neighbor's selfishness.  He won't wear a medical alert button to call someone should he fall, and he falls, often.  He's over 90.  "What about those who worry about you?" she asked him.  He answered, "I don't care what happens to me."  My friend does, though.

On our hike, I couldn't telescope my walking stick, which proved useless for maintaining balance among roots and stones and slushy leaves along a trail lined by twisting trunks and trees.  My nephew, stronger than I, tightened something days earlier, which I couldn't release, so I finally just carried the pole, somewhat awkwardly to the great stone shelf.

While my friend sat above, enjoying winter sun, I climbed down the stairs of the stone door into a burst of light below.  From either end -- above or below -- the rock is impressive: a convoluted upheaving of layered stone in rolling green and amber, blue and tawny red.  A passageway, my friend said, once used by Indians.

At home, soon after arriving filled with the salmon light of sunset and pleasant conversation, I lost my balance on unexpected news.  A loved former student, the daughter of a loved friend, lies in a hospital, after a serious accident, hovering in a twilight of pain and uncertainty.

Suddenly, as in the Ted Hughes' poem I mentioned earlier to my friend, the light drained from day, turning the stone door into metaphor: may Liz walk through the door of trauma to the other side, where her family and friends await her safe return.