Fig Tree

Slogging through the grieving process here.
The going-to-sleep last night was not a problem. It was the waking-up this morning that didn't go so well.
Funny how as soon as your brain really wakes up to the day (i.e. reality), that wonderful warm and fuzzy sleep-state poofs away so effortlessly, like it was never even there in the first place. Then, the brain starts churning and rolodex-ing through all of the "things" that define your personal reality for that day.
So, when I woke up this morning, and my sleep suddenly poofed away, I was immediately tangled up in a  knotted up mess of memory fragments--my last phone call with Dad and how he answered the phone, "Nesie-Love?! This is Daddy-O!"; my last visit with him in February and how I hugged him goodbye and said, "See you in May!" and he threw his arms up and said, "GREAT!"; all the times back in the 60s, tidepooling at Dana Point, San Onofre, and San Clemente; his temper tantrums when we were kids; his laugh; his singing; the way he relished food; and on, and on, and on.

I remarked to a friend yesterday how I will always think of Dad when I see or eat figs.

And speaking of figs.......

There is a large fig tree just off the deck at the house where I now live. The tree has to be at least seventy or eighty years old. It's the biggest fig tree I've ever seen--all gnarled and twisted on itself and sprawled out in directions that defy the laws of gravity. The first time I laid eyes on it was when I came to look at the house as a potential rental. Honestly, the house could have been a one-room shack. When I saw the fig tree, I figured I had found the place I was supposed to call home, at least for a while. I signed the lease, and here I am.

But back to figs and Dad......

In the midst of my memory barrage this morning, I reasoned, (because, even in the throes of grief, the intellectual four-fifths of my brain never seems to take a break) that perhaps I should get out of bed and take the dogs for a walk.

Not more than a dozen steps from the back door, leashed dogs in hand, as we started to make our way down the street to "do" what dogs do, I happened to glance over toward the fig tree........

A proud, brown, beautiful buck, all antlered and all alone, was resting peacefully right next to that big ole fig tree. And I stopped, and caught my breath, and just stood there. And he turned slowly and looked at me, and just.....stared. And I stared right back. I daresay, there was a bit of attitude in that buck's expression.

I reached for my phone to take a quick photo then quickly realized I had left my phone in the house (where's that intellectual four-fifths when I really need it?), but before I could think what to do next, the buck rose slowly out of the grass and simply walked off, down the hill, through the hedge.....gone.