sentimental postcard from missoula

I'm sitting in bed beside Martin, who is hunched over a Richard Russo book. Behind me a cool breeze moves through the window; beside me, two cups of chamomile tea on a trunk. A kanga covers the trunk, on which three African violets reach their fuzzy green leaves toward the light from the lamp. On the opposite wall, a row of wraps and scarves.

The children finally sleep, the dryer knocks and clicks, and Chopin plays eternally. My head echoes with the voices of dear friends who deeply rooted in my being: Kara, my constant friend since our childhood in Kenya, who is now content in love with a good man; Lindsay and Tim and their children, who we have laughed with now for eleven years since that time when Martin and I were first making our way as young newlyweds and then as new parents. Tim and Lindsay are godparents to Merry; we are godparents to their son, Corin, and Kara is Elspeth's godmother. I even got to spend time with Kara's brother, Nathaniel, who used to be a gangly little brother and now is a strapping, handsome man with a beard. And we were able to meet Tim and Lindsay's precious and beautiful new adopted daughter, Birdie, who just arrived with them from Ethiopia.

And all in Missoula, happiest of cities with its broad rivers and sweeping paths, mountains and enormous sky.

And here I close, because I have too much to write, about wonderful adventures in Washington and so many faces and voices that I wrap in joy, joy that is steeped in gratitude and marked by sadness that these precious ones must often be far away.

And too I remember the love and joy that waits for me in so many places: here; with my family in Washington; with Martin's family in Texas; at home in Pennsylvania. I am blessed with this embarrassment of love, for places contoured and mapped by the voices and open hands of all these dear ones.