We are still in Montana, taking care of one another during these rich days that are at once intense and domestic. Betty, Val’s mom, is holding steady in her weakened dream state, occasionally speaking, very occasionally occupying the same timestream as us. Val is very absorbed in taking care of her mama, the central concern of everyone here. (Well, my central concern is taking care of Val.) In between tender and medical moments people make meals, clean cupboards, crack jokes, watch birds, carry firewood, run errands, watch TV or read, cry and laugh, tell stories.
The weather has turned cold and this morning we awoke to trillions of specks of snow blowing westerly across the pasture. We took a short drive down to the hidden meadow, packing oxygen tanks and binoculars in the blue ranch truck, and rounded a corner to find ourselves swapping stares with a sharp-shinned hawk clutching a fresh-caught starling.
I’ve been practicing chords on a borrowed ukulele. I tried singing Gillian Welch’s pretty gospel tune “Orphan Girl” to a drowsing Betty, and she came briefly alert and asked plaintively, “Can I go to bed now?,” a review that incited great hilarity among the rest of the crew. Later we gathered around Betty’s chair and sang some of her favorite hymns. She rested quietly, inscrutable in her chair, but there was one sweet, quietly stunning moment when she flickered from her internal world to join us, murmuring along a few of the hymn’s words before lapsing back into quiet.
This morning there was snow gleaming through the pines and firs on Mount Ksanka. The field below the house is full of tuxedo’d magpies.
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Singing and birds.