even the mountains are sad

We have lived in the same neighborhood in Des Montes for 21 years. Our home is one of eight on a dead end dirt road surrounded by a breathtaking mountain landscape. When we bought our house and land the roads in Taos didn't have names. You'd visit friends with a set of abstract directions: turn left at the cow sculpture; the fence with the yellow post; the second cattle guard. We all had PO boxes and there is still no mail delivery outside of town. At some point of progress, residents were asked to submit road names. Ours became the name of the family who originally owned most of the land we were on and who had homes and young families. We lived in their midst. We felt kind of old. We were already grandparents and had left our family in Connecticut to start a new life in New Mexico. We hoped they would learn to love it. Some did. Every summer our granddaughter came out for a few weeks. Her visit was the highlight of our year and she soon became friends with the boy next door. He was just a few months older and they spent summer days together; we'd take him with us on picnics, or to the Pow Wow or do some of the other things adults do to entertain children. Around age 7 Kira announced "he isn't like other boys" - meaning he was more gentle, eager to do the things she liked to do. Crafts, homemade puppet shows, coloring, baking cookies. Once the three of us picked all the lavender from the bush that flourished that year and hung it upside down on the kitchen rafters to dry. The next time they were together, Kira and Floyd removed all the dried buds from the stems and filled two quart jars with the fragrant herb. I found a forgotten half jar of it today in the back of a cabinet.

One very hot summer afternoon I had to divert Kira from noticing Floyd and his two cousins stark naked jumping on a trampoline next door, splashing each other with the garden hose. Being so young, all she noticed was that in the tall grass they seemed to be floating up and down on thin air and asked how it was possible. I admit that for a time I harbored a selfish secret wish that they would fall in love someday and live in Taos near us forever. That didn't happen of course; at visit's end they each returned to very different worlds 2000 miles apart.

On Wednesday night that boy took his life. I don't know why. His family is devastated and it's not a question we will ask. They don't know the answer either. We can only send our thoughts and prayers, cook and deliver humble food for the steady stream of family and friends coming to be with them. Many hearts are broken and it's hard to wrap our minds around a life being voluntarily cut off at 22 years. Why?

Last night's sunset was so strange and magical that I stopped along the road on the way home from the grocery store to attempt to capture something elusive, brief and bright.

Call it loneliness,
that deep, beautiful color
no one can describe:
over these dark mountains,
the gathering [summer] dusk.
             Zen poem (12th c) trans. S. Hamill