The Cranes on the Potomac

There is a trail near the Potomac that we walk in the evening.

Just offshore is a small island where white cranes gather at dusk. I noticed them before Curtis did. To me, seeing them there felt like one of those small wonders of the earth—the kind of moment that makes you stop for a second and feel peaceful.

At first, Curtis did not really understand why I cared so much.

That was not a problem. We do not have to notice the same things.

What mattered was what happened afterward.

Once I explained why the cranes meant something to me, he started looking for them too.

A few weeks later, during a morning walk, we passed the island and they were not where we expected them to be. Curtis mentioned that maybe they had already left. I kept looking until I saw one in flight.

“Look, there is one flying now. They’re still there.”

The important part of that memory is not the bird.

It is that Curtis had learned to look.

For much of our adult lives, there was always something competing for attention: work, schedules, obligations, the next task, the next problem to solve. Changing our orbit is supposed to create more room for different things to have weight.

Sometimes that means a major decision.

Sometimes it means learning that the person beside you loves watching cranes at dusk—and caring enough to notice when they are gone.

When Ericka was asked how that made her feel, her answer was only two words:

“Warm and loved.”