Currently, our bus is parked at a campground just North of
San Francisco. I came here a couple of
times as a child with my family, to see the sights and visit my grandfather who
lived in Sacramento. In the cob-webbed cupboards of my mind, I’ve stored images
of weaving down Lombard St. in a stuffy rental car; gazing, frightened and
intrigued, at the fuzzy image of Alcatraz through the cheap lenses of pre-pay, mounted binoculars; and the towering majesty of centuries-old Redwoods standing as
sentries along the rocky streams of Muir Woods.
But each memory is merely a silhouette, a deep outline but
no details in the middle, until one moment stands out full and weighty with
color, texture, and emotion.
That moment portrays a long haired child bending over a
thorny, blossom-bursting yellow rose bush beside her grandfather. He is handsome, white hair reflecting off
skin tanned by the suns of Hawaii and California over 60 plus years. His smile dazzles, roping my young heart like
he lassoed so many others throughout the years (he left a trail of broken,
wandering hearts behind him).
But not
mine.
With the steady hand of a skilled gardener, he snips the
stem of a budding flower at a precise angle.
And he hands it to me. Placing my fingers to offset the thorns, I take
it from him and tears trickle down my cheeks.
We are leaving, and I don’t want to say good-bye.
When we got back to Ohio, when the petals began to wilt at
their edges and hunch their shoulders, my mom pulled out the creaky ironing
board from the laundry room, placed my tired rose upon it and entombed it
between two sheets of wax paper. I kept it in my memory box, and every month or so, teetering
on an old wooden chair, I’d pull it down from my closet shelf and finger it’s
pressed profile.
Years later, my mom called me to tell me that my grandfather
was dying. She asked me to fly out to
Ohio to meet up with her and my dad then fly on to Sacramento to say farewell. But I couldn’t go. I wouldn’t go.
I feigned some important obligation I simply couldn’t break. But really, I was afraid: afraid of flying,
afraid of death, afraid of sadness, afraid that the frail old man lying in a
bed dying of emphysema would erase what I remembered of him as a child.
But here I am now, driving the same highways he once did and
gazing upon landscapes that provided the backdrop for his later years. And I
wish I had a do-over. I wish I had
folded fear into my bedside drawer, boarded that plane, and said a proper
“good-bye” to my grandfather.
But I didn’t.
A couple days ago, I started out for a jog, turning out of
our RV park and down a smooth sidewalk lining dated little houses along a quiet
street. As my gaze swung to my left, I
saw an elevated flower bed just ahead of me, lined with rose bushes, each a
different color: red, orange, pink…and yellow.
I smiled, tears quivering along the rims of my eyes, and I
thought:
I’m not afraid anymore.
When we return from our trip in about 6 weeks and when we have a home again with perhaps a little square of green and brown earth, I think I'll bend over a hole dug with the pink and blue spades of my four children. And I'll plant a bush that will bloom with yellow roses.
What about you? Do you have a good-bye that is long overdue?
That wa beautiful, maile! Totally in tears here. I've said goodbye to both of my recently and I miss them soo much!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Amber:)
DeleteBeautifully said and I'm sure you were writing THIS when your husband said he loves to watch you write, as tears were streaming down your face. Or whatever he said. I have a bad memory! A yellow rose bush sounds like the perfect thing.
ReplyDeleteYou are quite the Sherlock Holmes; yes,indeed, I was writing this post:) My husband gave me away...
DeleteSmucker! This is lovely and charming and just fat with hope. Love it. May I take one minute to say, my parents asked me to read Scripture at my grandmother's funeral; I agreed. Then I backed out. I couldn't do it. Not because of love, but selfish anger. We had had a large argument several years before her death, and we never really recovered. We pretended, but it was never the same. I was mad at her at the time of the argument, and mad at her when she died, for dying without a mind that could forgive.
ReplyDeleteWow, Jen, what a sad "good-bye"; thanks so much for sharing that.
DeleteThe moment he placed that rose in your hand, that is truly a moment to remember.
ReplyDeleteThank you for that reminder, Nance. Very true; definitely a moment I will never forget, but will always treasure.
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