Dad has jumped down to the river’s edge, nearly toppling into the chill glassiness. He is gently poking an object with a stick, turning it over and marveling at its size, the spatter of spots laid across its near-albino skin, the jagged wound jack-knifing across its back. The trout rocks silently in the mild current, keeper of its mysteries, as we discuss the possibilities regarding its demise. 

Watching my father and my mother, who has joined him at the bank and is peering intently at his probing examination, I am moved by their keen interest in this water-borne being, this fellow traveler whose path terminated near their Pennsylvania home. There is little to conclude with any certainty, except that this creature’s life has concluded and its body, disintegrating with the water’s steady lapping, now feeds other life forms. 

My parents, in their inquisitive appreciation of this event, remind me that life is rich with wonder, that although the cycle—birth, growth, decline, death—is relatively brief, it is, nonetheless, our greatest gift, deserving of our close attention. 

Long before we find the fish, when the day has barely cracked its shell of darkness, my little dog wakes me. No matter how much I’d like to remain cocooned in blankets, Sadie’s needs take precedence, and I bundle up against the chilly air outside. Her 13-year-old body struggles to shrug off the stiffness of sleep. With her other senses declining, Sadie’s olfactory abilities have become remarkably keen and she soon turns up a bread crust tossed out for the birds. 

Despite deafness, near-blindness and a host of other age-related ills, she is joyful at the dawning of this day. She musters what strength she can and tugs me along, eager to go, happy just to be a part of this morning adventure. In this, the autumn of her life, there is ongoing evidence of decline. And yet, her unfailing attitude of eagerness inspires me, awakening gratitude for the lessons I’ve received from a curly old cocker spaniel.

Later, I take a lesson on the use of a chainsaw from my father. We spend the morning bent over trees. The wonder of this snarling marvel is not lost upon me. I have long known a cautious respect for this tool that chews through dense matter with astonishing swiftness. I’ve heard of the horrors that come with inattentiveness around chainsaws, can visualize the result of a kickback. 

I turn with intention to this learning, feel for the strain of the engine, modulate the grip of my left hand as it clutches too tightly, trying to force what the saw does best when guided lightly. I am taught to remove the chain, encouraged to practice adjusting its tension, and led to see the importance of cleaning the saw, so the dragon can breathe. I begin to dance with this device that is a partner to my warmth this winter. 

Soon we join my mother in the meal she has lovingly gathered to sustain us. As the day approaches its demise, I drive home along roads that all have beginnings and endings, macadam ribbons winding to wherever. Destination is not so important; it’s what one encounters along the way that makes a life journey interesting, how closely one observes, how much heart one brings to the adventure. Sadie snores away in the back seat, no doubt dreaming of doggie delights, hikes we have taken, garbage cans raided. 

I am thinking how even the process of breathing follows the cycle. As a breath is born, the lungs fill with air, expanding until they can grow no more; then one must exhale, bringing the breath to its natural conclusion when the air is gone, the lungs empty. The miracle, I marvel, is how it happens once again, then on and on, as we walk our dogs, talk with loved ones, drive in our cars, learn about saws, consider the end of the life of a fish, and all these precious gifts—breath, love, life.