Before we came along, our 55 acres in Sonoma were home to wildlife and occasional hunting parties. This month's fires burned all the trees and brush and grasses revealing what was left behind by the revelers of old; a batch of rusted out old beer cans (not pop top cans, but ones opened with church keys) and this small glass, completely intact, caked with dirt and black ash. I'm imagining it filled with whiskey sipped under a starlit sky under the old oaks on the hill in the middle of our meadow. I think I will keep it as a reminder of survival, and time, and the meaning contained in a simple object.
Perhaps one day I will fill it with Sonoma wine and toast our first night back on the land.
I just might keep painting this place until the rain returns, the meadow fills with wildflowers, grasses grow, trees take root, birds begin to sing, the wildlife returns, and who knows, maybe the iris will bloom.
We will rebuild.
In the meantime we are grateful for what we had for many years, and for what we have, not the least of which is each other.