Jacob

3:31 am

I waken to stillness.

My hands tingle, hot with Reiki energy. Cheyenne sleeps soundly. Something wakened me. What?

There. On the porch. In the starless, fog-shrouded darkness, the slight sillouhette of a head. I recognize the shape, the slightly irregular thatch of hair.

Rising, I lift my well-worn kimono from the foot of the bed, wrap the supple fabric tight, pull the sash, and gently push open the screen door. Moist fog touches my face, each tiny droplet engaging a nerve ever so gently. I inhale deeply.

Thirteen year old Jacob sits in silent meditation, does not stir at my approach.

He knew I would come. A zafu lies next to him on the slate floor.

I grab two afghans from the chest under the window, drape one over Jacob's knees, and take my seat, pulling the other over mine. The wool is instantly warm.

It is not yet light, the air still. The fog rests against the earth, holding yesterday's warmth close.

I close my eyes, spine straight, stretched tall, my shoulders easy, palms slightly cupped on my thighs.

Breathe in.

Images flutter through my mind. Jacob's easy birth, his mother and father panting together, pushing together.

Breathe out.

A picnic in the hills, Jacob mesmerized by brown-striped newts sunning themselves on hot rocks.

Breathe in.

Marita's long illness, Jacob carrying trays of soup and bread, festooned with shells and feathers he has collected.

Breathe out.

Jonathon's grieving.

Breathe in.

Jacob standing at the kitchen door, silent, holding a kitten, a bunny, a turtle. Sometimes the animal is injured and we tend to it together.

Breathe out.

Jonathon's frantic call to villagers to look for Jacob, again and again, after he's wandered alone into the hills.

Breathe in.

Finding him so often, sitting on a rock in rain, beating sun, high wind, or seemingly airless days, sitting, listening, watching.

Breathe out.

Almost always there would be tracks--sometimes it would appear an entire flock of quail had circled him. Others, we would see the tracks of a coyote or wolf, and sometimes a mountain lion.

Breathe in.

Once, the unmistakable imprint of a rattlesnake in the soft dry soil next to the boy.

Breathe out.

Focus on the breath.

Breathe in.

Feel the breath cool against the tip of my nostrils.

Breathe out.

Feel the breath slightly warmer passing again the nostrils.

Breathe in.

I quiet my mind, letting go of all thoughts, letting them pass through like water.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

When he is ready, Jacob reaches for my hand, as he has done since he was a mite. His hand is warm, dry, the skin thick and slightly callused. His fingers are long and thin, not quite the hand of a man yet, but close.

Breathe out.

His breathing shifts, long cleansing breath.

I follow with one of my own.

"What can I do for you, Jacob?"

He is silent a moment more, then: "Mountain lion."

Breathe in.

The cat in the dream.

Breathe out.

"I watched her birth her cubs tonight. Three of them."

Jacob turns to face me then, withdraws his hand. "Rose, it was the most amazing thing! I think she knew I was there. She didn't seem to mind. She let me watch! Oh, Rose, they came out one by one, slowly. She grunted once, and that was the only sound. It was a-may-zing!"

"You are amazing, Jacob. How did you know she wouldn't hurt you?"

"She needed me, Rose."

He doesn't try to explain more, trusting me to understand, though I don't entirely.

No one in Ordinary has the affinity for animals Jacob has. None of us has experienced the closeness to them he does.

He is silent again, his eyes closed, his breath measured.

I too close my eyes and breathe with Jacob until long after I feel the sun on my face, the fog having lifted to another glorious day.

I do not open my eyes until he is gone, quietly slipping away to his morning chores.