sickbeds. I missed those bright blooms that had been mine and felt it unfair that I must leave my hard work there to die. But I did not think of it overmuch. My mind and heart were occupied with the sorrows and joys of motherhood.
The day came, it seemed in no time, when my children were grown and gone, and I again found time to tend the roses. I could labor over them from dawn until dusk with no children to feed, no husband needing meals, and few passersby on the old road. My flowers have come thick and full and beautiful again. From time to time, I see neighbor children come to pick them when I am silent in my house. I close my eyes and listen to their laughter, and think that the best times of my life, the times that passed by me the most quickly, were the times when the roses grew wild.
The sense of sadness in those last words was overwhelming. For a moment, I glimpsed my own future, considered a day when I would sit alone in a quiet house trying to fill my time, at the end of things rather than at the beginning. The beginning of a journey is always uncertain, but with uncertainty comes hope. Never had I appreciated the value of that. Through all of my adult life, I had wanted to know exactly where I was going and what path to take to get there. I had never considered the beauty of where I was. Sitting there in Grandma’s kitchen, holding her book, I thought of her as a young woman not able to see that something wonderful was passing. Not appreciating the noise until she was surrounded by silence.
For the first time in my life, I was very glad just to be where I was.
Joshua stirred upstairs, and I left the kitchen, setting Grandma’s book on the table, just as I had found it. When I reached the upstairs bedroom, Joshua was lying in the crib, stretching his hands into the air and watching faded plastic horses dance on an old crib toy Grandma had hung above the bed. Gazing at him from the doorway, I wondered if my grandmother had once stood in that very spot watching my father in that old wooden crib, and if my mother had once stood there watching me.
The feeling of missing my mother was suddenly overwhelming. The six years since her death seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Here at the farm my grief felt fresh. This was the place where I remembered her most, where she was never busy with patient consultations and college courses. This was where I loved her most, where we picked blackberries and baked cobblers and roasted hotdogs on the stone grill out back, where we really spent time together. I wondered if she had felt that way about it too, or if she even found time to think.
Josh grew restless, and I picked him up and sat in the rocking chair by the window, feeling the weight of him on my chest and gazing at the waning day—thinking of Grandma’s story about the roses and about the fact that time is so invisible, you never see it passing.
I was drifting somewhere among the crimson-rimmed clouds when Joshua grew impatient and made it clear he was ready for a bottle. Leaving my thoughts behind, I went downstairs to feed him and fix supper. The book was gone from the table, and Grandma was sitting there drinking a cup of coffee, looking slightly chilled. She reached for Josh and fed him while I worked on creating a casserole from leftover breakfast sausage and some of our salvaged vegetables. The kitchen was heavy with the odor of paint from the utility room, but Grandma didn’t mention it.
Ben walked in the door just as I was putting the plates on the table. Hanging his coat on the hook, he looked over his shoulder with a frown. “Why does it smell like paint in here?”
I gave him a warning glance as I finished setting the table and started serving the food. “Must be the casserole.”
He knitted his brows in confusion, but just nodded, afraid to say anything else. “O.K.” And he sat down, wisely keeping silent until he could survey the lay of the land.
We sat there quietly for a while, at
The day came, it seemed in no time, when my children were grown and gone, and I again found time to tend the roses. I could labor over them from dawn until dusk with no children to feed, no husband needing meals, and few passersby on the old road. My flowers have come thick and full and beautiful again. From time to time, I see neighbor children come to pick them when I am silent in my house. I close my eyes and listen to their laughter, and think that the best times of my life, the times that passed by me the most quickly, were the times when the roses grew wild.
The sense of sadness in those last words was overwhelming. For a moment, I glimpsed my own future, considered a day when I would sit alone in a quiet house trying to fill my time, at the end of things rather than at the beginning. The beginning of a journey is always uncertain, but with uncertainty comes hope. Never had I appreciated the value of that. Through all of my adult life, I had wanted to know exactly where I was going and what path to take to get there. I had never considered the beauty of where I was. Sitting there in Grandma’s kitchen, holding her book, I thought of her as a young woman not able to see that something wonderful was passing. Not appreciating the noise until she was surrounded by silence.
For the first time in my life, I was very glad just to be where I was.
Joshua stirred upstairs, and I left the kitchen, setting Grandma’s book on the table, just as I had found it. When I reached the upstairs bedroom, Joshua was lying in the crib, stretching his hands into the air and watching faded plastic horses dance on an old crib toy Grandma had hung above the bed. Gazing at him from the doorway, I wondered if my grandmother had once stood in that very spot watching my father in that old wooden crib, and if my mother had once stood there watching me.
The feeling of missing my mother was suddenly overwhelming. The six years since her death seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Here at the farm my grief felt fresh. This was the place where I remembered her most, where she was never busy with patient consultations and college courses. This was where I loved her most, where we picked blackberries and baked cobblers and roasted hotdogs on the stone grill out back, where we really spent time together. I wondered if she had felt that way about it too, or if she even found time to think.
Josh grew restless, and I picked him up and sat in the rocking chair by the window, feeling the weight of him on my chest and gazing at the waning day—thinking of Grandma’s story about the roses and about the fact that time is so invisible, you never see it passing.
I was drifting somewhere among the crimson-rimmed clouds when Joshua grew impatient and made it clear he was ready for a bottle. Leaving my thoughts behind, I went downstairs to feed him and fix supper. The book was gone from the table, and Grandma was sitting there drinking a cup of coffee, looking slightly chilled. She reached for Josh and fed him while I worked on creating a casserole from leftover breakfast sausage and some of our salvaged vegetables. The kitchen was heavy with the odor of paint from the utility room, but Grandma didn’t mention it.
Ben walked in the door just as I was putting the plates on the table. Hanging his coat on the hook, he looked over his shoulder with a frown. “Why does it smell like paint in here?”
I gave him a warning glance as I finished setting the table and started serving the food. “Must be the casserole.”
He knitted his brows in confusion, but just nodded, afraid to say anything else. “O.K.” And he sat down, wisely keeping silent until he could survey the lay of the land.
We sat there quietly for a while, at
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