Watering

This summer is a dry one--I've been spending early mornings and late evenings watering,  thinking about water, and its growing scarcity. 

Last evening, I stood in my garden pouring water from a spout, a miracle in this late July. 

The air is heavy, uneasy and a child cries plaintively at the end of a long day; birds twitter and rush among the flush of late afternoon, the time when summer day melts into night.

I recall a churchyard in England where the flies buzzed, where I first attended a service called evensong.  I remember the minister preaching about time present and time past, let the evening come, he said.

The words seem strangely comforting to me during this summer of upheaval when my mother's lungs have filled with water and been drained, leaving her weak and tired.

She tells me she has spent the day washing old porcelains, as she wonders aloud where her spoons and forks should go--my children wash out paint brushes to make our new house a home--

I close my eyes in thanksgiving, whispering to myself, let the evening come.