It was a stormy Friday night in the middle of a small town just off the busy roads in Maine. We had a lake house just outside a long, raging river. I glanced out the window as lightning struck and thunder shook the dock. It was late, but the lightning made the sky appear lighter. The house was frigid and old. I wrapped myself in blankets as I heard hail tapping down on the windows. 

There were screams of terror coming from across the lake. This was common during storms like this one. The houses were so old that the windows would shatter if the right amount of rain reached them. Then, electronics would get wet and money would be wasted to buy new ones. The storms never bothered me aside from the draft that would creep under the door. But even that seemed to be such a small detail to even mention when all the rain did was refresh my plants and satisfy the life that resides in the lake.

My hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. I glanced up to the sunroof. The glass was dirty and old, but it never once cracked. Then my eyes traveled to the fireplace, following the gray stonework and the little dance of the embers. 

Suddenly, I found silence. The rain had passed and the house fell so quiet you could hear a pin drop in the hallway upstairs. 

 I got to my feet and walked to the kitchen. I picked up each pot or dish from the floor. The roof leaked and I didn’t have the time or money to fix it. I wouldn't change my leaking roof for a new one anyway. The water I collected was used for my flowers. It's much more refreshing than any tap water. I poured each pot, glass cup, and china plate into a large pail and set it down. 

 I smoothed my hand over the dark wood table and found the paper

The paper that I would read every so often. The one that was always there yet for some odd reason felt so distant. 

While I was lost in thought a bird flew and hit the window. I saw it fall and walked outside to help it. However, there was no helping him this time he was so dazed I knew he wouldn't make it. But then comes reality. What will I do with this bird? How can I help him leave in peace? 

I decided to bring him to the house. I reached for an old shoe box in the highest corner of a little closet off the bedroom. I then gathered some red, yellow, and brown leaves from outside. Autumn had swept the Earth in a cold and wondrous way

Eventually, the bird did pass. He was happier that way. He was old and exhausted. His wings didn't work anymore so he had to hop instead. It was quite tiring for a bird his size. 

Autumn still went on. The world seems to always work that way. No matter if you're mourning or dancing. It just goes by so incredibly fast that it seems to just fly by. I have learned to find joy when time seems to stand still because it doesn't happen all the time. So find peace when time stands still and remember what made that possible.

I watched as the wind blew the autumn leaves up into the sky. Twirling and twisting, the leaves flew up into the sky. They lay colorful against the light blue sky. 

My eyes traveled softly across the lake. They settled steadily on a little girl. She sat solemnly against the perishing grass. She focused on a little bluebird. It hopped and looked right back up at her. A beautiful interaction between animal and human. She didn't reach for him though. She just looked right back at him. 

Soon I found myself looking down at my cup of tea. The way my gloves matched the cup. The way the black of my boots stood out against the orange and yellow and red. The way the sun shone through the glass cup made a pattern against the gray bricks of the house.

I found myself content with the wonders of the human eye. The way everything looks so incredibly fascinating when you just relax and clear your mind. 

 I looked up at the old oak tree. I examined the sun piercing through the leaves. The simple way that the orange and yellow blended together. 

  Climbing back up to my feet I walked slowly to the living room. Sinking into the soft cotton of my sofa, I reached for my book. I found time flying past me as my eyes traveled quickly across each page, craving what would come next. A few hours passed and the book was finished. I set it back down on the long coffee table

 Just then the large wood door swung open. 

 I didn't budge from my place on the sofa. It was the wind. So powerful and willing. My door never did close very well. I walked to the old door. Wooden but it never looked like such. Brown but so dark and old that it would almost appear black if you weren't paying attention. 

I walked to the kitchen and lifted the paper off the dining room table. The same one that sits there on the table every day. I observed it. Each intricate detail like those that might appear on a piece of lace. I watched the expression of the woman in the photo. 

All of a sudden, standing there in the kitchen, the world seemed to end. So much noise yet somehow everything was blocked out. It happened all so incredibly fast. I fell to the floor. Down on my knees. I hadn’t realized how overwhelmed I  was until I lay there on the black tile floor. I lay on my back. The sky was dark. Raining again. I watched as each and every drop of rain hit the glass on the ceiling.  The small print of my name written on the underside of the table from oh so long ago. The dark pines swayed protecting me from the world so wide and frightening. I reached on the top of the table grasping the paper and bringing it slowly down to my view. I read each word as if it was foreign. I ran my hand around the corner of the page showing my photo and all the things they thought I was. 1926-2011. 85. Birdie Urban Grey.  I looked back up at the table to see B.U.G written into the grained wood. Formerly known as B.U.G. I set the paper back down to its place on the table. I will forever stay in my place on the lakehouse, right beside the raging river, just off the busy roads of Maine.