As I walked along the Columbia beach, the fetch-driven girls racing up and down the shoreline in slavish pursuit of chucked orange balls, the morning sunshine glinted off the water. I bent to retrieve yet another ball dropped at my feet and straightened to see my shadow shimmering on the beach, see-through in the dancing rays. Shifting to the left and to the right and raising my arms up and down, my shadow remained translucent in a way I've never seen before.
I swung the chuck-it in a giant arc to send the next toss careening down the beach and as I watched the ball fly, I took in the sparkle at the tops of the cottonwood trees as sunlight danced with leaves. Warmth coalesced in my chest and rose to my face, erupting in a wide smile. I saw, or almost saw, or anyway, thought, angel dogs were lying high in the trees, wide dog-smiles on their faces.
Nicholai was there, the idea of him anyway, happy to be reunited with his friends. And happy too, to see me play on the beach. Molly, my dear departed three-legged dog was there with him, laughing; at least I like to think so.
Maybe it was the sun's golden play or the leaves' saucy rumba in the breeze, but a cheerful gladness took me for a moment, and for the first time since Nicholai died, I felt at peace for him and for me.
Angel Nicholai, or the idea, looked happy laying near the Molly he so loved. Molly's jovial countenance reminded me I need to finish my book, which has languished for the past few months, forgotten almost, in thoughts of cancer, fears of loss, and great sadness. I saw, or thought I saw, or felt anyway, a glimmer of other old dog-friends, now angels, in the trees.
Thank you, Mary Oliver for the images of angels in trees. This morning they were – I think – all around me.
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