and yet

I counted the days just now. Twice. A second time because I didn't believe myself the first time, but the number was just as high. High like the bamboo in the back yard. It's nearly as tall as the house and shades the deck in the afternoon when the sun makes its sojourn over from east to west. It's windy today; I can tell by looking at the bamboo. It bows and arcs and flexes, a each stalk separating itself, creating spaces in the thicket for the sunlight to slip through.

It wasn't so long ago (but the number tells me otherwise) that we were standing in the middle of the backyard staring up at the sky. We stood stick straight and stiff like bamboo, arms like leaves, one of mine in the sky, a finger pointing towards the stars. It seemed like a right of passage. Some sort of ritual. Like when Dad cuts the bamboo down in the fall and saves a few stalks for a teepee, or the bones of a scarecrow, or to use as the gold medal-winning javelin. It was long before the bamboo had even sprouted though, and before it blew in the wind playing games with the summer sun. Long before midnight walks past the magic house and lanterns in the apple tree. Yes, long before that. And yet.