A New Change

From my vantage point atop a densely packed bookcase in the Old One’s apartment, I can glimpse the magnificent Pacific Ocean through the sliding glass doors of the balcony. I have to say that looking at that vast and mysterious body of water almost makes me feel alive if that’s not too presumptuous for a photo frame to say. The sea excites me because it’s always changing—countless shades of gray or blue or green, occasionally shrouded in mist, sometimes whipped into a frenzy of white peaks when the weather is stormy, and often more tranquil and full of magical sparkles of sunshine or moonlight. Except for the humans that I’ve been watching over and listening to in this very room for so many years, the sea is my biggest joy, a delight really.

In any case, it is here that I’ve been privileged to enjoy a unique perspective on the interwoven lives of three generations of female humans—the Old One who is moving more slowly these days; a daughter, the Middle One who is a single mom in early middle-age; and a granddaughter, the Little One, who I know to have recently turned twelve and is much beloved by both mother and grandmother. If I were actually alive, I would adore her too.

These three females gather most evenings to have dinner together around the wooden coffee table here in the comfortable apartment of the Old One, who carefully places cloth napkins, utensils, and water glasses in preparation for their meal together. I should also mention that there is a dog, a rather ragged-looking creature they have talked about as a “rescue.” It’s a tiny but fascinatingly imperious animal who seems to have some power over all of them despite weighing a mere thirteen pounds and being, at times, a bit grumpy. The dog sometimes amuses herself and the three females by barking loudly to scare away the family of crows who arrive each day to feast on Ritz crackers on the balcony. The Old One gently shushes the dog as she freshens the bowl of water for the crows.

Over the years, I’ve learned a lot from this little family of humans and their animal companions. Sometimes they fill me with great joy, like when they laugh so hard together that they can hardly talk. When the Old One, who no longer hears as well as she once did, misunderstands what one of the others has said, they all break up laughing so hard that they cannot speak. The Little One, still a child but on the verge of adolescence, fills me with pleasure as she often does handstands and cartwheels and other acrobatics in this room, and I feel her pleasure as she tells a riddle or a story that will make the others laugh. I marvel to think about how much she has changed during these twelve years. Even the pup has changed. Having entered middle age for a dog (I’ve heard my humans explain that a dog’s life is short), she seldom runs after her miniature tennis ball now or brings out Lambie, one of her stuffed animals, as she used to do.

The women and the girl all eat together almost every evening when the Middle One visits here with the Little One following various after-school activities. Within the past year the Little One has become a vegetarian like the Old One, apparently out of their love of animals, but the Middle One, who also loves animals, is not ready to give up eating meat. This has caused a change in their daily menu. No more bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches, and more experiments with tofu and vegetables for example, but they seem to have adjusted and respect each other’s preferences.

After dinner and dishes and sometimes a surprise chocolate dessert, they play a game or work on a jigsaw puzzle (a favorite activity of the Middle One) or read books. Often now, the Little One has homework to do. They might watch a little political news or, once in a while, a movie on television. Sometimes, they take turns choosing songs to play on Spotify—Taylor Swift for the Little One, once-popular 80’s and 90’s tunes for the Middle One, and Joan Baez and Bob Dylan or a classical piece by Samuel Barber for the Old One. They have found ways to enjoy each other’s company, and I look down at them with what I think may be called pride and affection. In any case, they have shown me the joy that is possible among their species.

But I’ve learned, too, about the sadness of being alive in the world. My three humans have suffered over the years, from disease, disappointments, and loss. At times, I am certain that I can feel the vibrations of the universe in their sadness right through the wood of my frame. I sense the dark, slow frequencies that I imagine must hurt the humans inside their soft bodies.  One time a beloved cat died. All of them were sad, but the Little One cried piteously, something she rarely does. At another time, the Old One became ill with something called cancer, and for a while, she lost all her hair. The Middle One was absent from dinners for a couple of weeks, apparently taking a rest from the stress of being human, trying to regain her equilibrium to live again in the world. I felt the low vibrations of sadness in all of them then.

But today, there is a new change taking place. The Old One has been busy thinning out the bookshelves and reorganizing her filing cabinet. I watch her, a serious frown on her forehead as she skims old papers and makes decisions about whether to throw them in the trash or refile them. I see her glance up at me from time to time, and I imagine she is talking to me about what she is doing, about the decisions she is making, or perhaps remembering something from the past. Sometimes, she even speaks aloud, calling me by a name, which I will not say, for it is sacred to the Old One, I believe.  It took me a long time, but I learned some time ago that the name the Old One speaks is the name of her son, whose photo must be within my frame. Though I cannot see him, I imagine him to look like a male version of the Little One. I learned, too, that he drowned in a river in a national park twenty-five years ago, still a young man who seemed to have a lifetime ahead of him. The vibration of his name causes me pain as she speaks it aloud, and I see that pain reflected on the Old One’s face as well. She only speaks this way when the others are not present.

Lately, I’ve grown a bit dusty up here on top of the bookcase because the Old One can no longer reach up here to dust without having to drag out a stool and climb up on it to reach me—a rather precarious action. But now, here she is. Not just wiping dust from me and the precious picture. But lifting me down from my long-time perch. Then. I am suddenly remembering that today must be her son's birthday. Yes, she is wearing his plaid flannel shirt, as she does each year on this day.

She carries me out to the sun-warmed balcony where she has refilled the hummingbird feeder and fertilized the brilliant flowering plant climbing on the trellis. Together we look out at the silvery sea. She speaks gently to me of the changes that are, she says, inevitable for all living things. But she is not afraid, she says, because it has been a magnificent privilege and a glorious adventure to live in this world, and she is curious about the next adventure. And then, she tells me that she will keep me now by her bedside so she can talk to me more often—and I understand that she means her son. I feel the vibrations of both her sadness and her joy as we silently watch the waves rise and fall, rise and fall in the vast ocean before us.