Gone but not forgotten

Though I live on an island, the island is nestled in the crook of an arm of land that folds around us from the mainland, like a father carrying a small child on his shoulder. And though our primary access is by ferry, from Seattle, we can also cross to that arm of land via a bridge from the north end of the island.

For the first few years after we moved here, crossing the bridge meant a long slow slog along the outskirts of Poulsbo, with inevitable halts at the several traffic lights installed along Route 305. This house sat in a field of cattails and willow trees along the left side of the road; graceful and inviting, but empty and increasingly graffiti-covered until one day it was bulldozed away, the road was widened, and what had been a sluggish two-lane road became a relatively quick and easy bypass.

The longer I live, the more I see and accept that life moves in cycles: Spring with its daffodils and cherry trees slides through summer into fall; day follows night; the parallel tracks of a marriage shudder and shift with the inevitable bumps in the landscape, then straighten out again. At the same time, train wrecks do occasionally result; things get lost, or destroyed, and we don't get always get to say goodbye before they go.

Which is one good reason, I think, to pay attention to what life is now, in this moment. I was lucky: one of the many days I was stuck in the traffic outside Poulsbo, waiting for the light to change, I had my camera with me, and took a minute to photograph this house. And now, though the cattails and the willow are gone, and bulldozers are smoothing gravel and asphalt over the rise, and there is a large sign suggesting that there will eventually be medical condos for lease (whatever that means), I have this photograph to remind me of the green and the beauty and the home that used to be.