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By Marie Huston A grandmother in Georgia glances at her watch. She wanders to the shade of a nearby bench and absorbs the peace of roses, removed from the chatter of small children. She closes her eyes in prayer. A Texan on vacation recalls the date and quietly bows her head for a moment before turning toward an antique store and opening the gate. A teacher in Virginia looks up from her books and notices the time. A quiet prayer is sent while lifting her pen to grade a student's rhyme. A florist in California pauses in her Mother's Day rush -- to send good thoughts onward -- before answering the telephone. A woman in Louisiana watches her husband stake out their new home and in the excitement, almost misses the moment -- but doesn't. A mother in Boston nurses her baby and silently prays over tousled curls. A lady in Florida places positive thoughts onto the wings of a butterfly as it flutters northward. Methodist, Baptist, Catholic, Jew -- united yet separate -- each in her private manner, send courage and hope to a friend in pain. In a sleepy midwestern town, Ruth pulls into her driveway, turns off the ignition and sits, her mind blank. She shakes her head slightly as if to ward off fog, gathers her things and steps onto the walk. It's a stately house of solid brick, in a sturdy neighborhood of high respectability. Roses clamber to the roof and ivy pays thick tribute to the ancient oaks. The boulevard is quiet, save a twirling sprinkler and the soft drone of a distant mower. Silence permeates the house itself, shrouding the stillness in echoes of voices gone. Ruth stares at the entrance as if a stranger. The widow's tower mocks her and the garden beckons. She follows the grassy path, thick with green, around a corner and into her sanctuary of rosemary and thyme, rosebuds and dill. She slowly stoops to pull a random weed and absently plucks a bloom. Created in angst, the garden grants respite and Ruth kneels on a carpet of alyssum, finding comfort among the herbs. A breeze softly blows a butterfly above her and the prayers of unmet friends gather in force to settle on her heart. A moment of reflection, solitude before the onslaught of approaching loneliness. An inherent measure of peace in closure, she thinks. Yet finality, as well. What comes now? Will the guilt return, and the bleak despair? Will ghosts fill her dreams or might she be spared? As the sun begins to set, she rises to retrace her steps and enter the house. Silence drops from the foyer's high ceiling to boomerang from wall to wall, bounce off oaken floors and wind upward along the circling stair. She walks among the antiques, treasured in the way of homes without children, stopping at the door of the den. Machines lie unused -- a walker no longer needed; the bed can be moved now. She stands there, steady in her loss. Tomorrow. The bed can be moved tomorrow. She slides the doors shut with a quick tap, returning to the foyer and climbs the age-old stairs to the tower above, the widow's lookout -- a folly indeed so far from the sea, but appropriate to the day. Alone. Mourners gone; flowers fading. Alone; adrift. The sun sets and night begins. What will morning bring? Seeking solace, hope, a touch of sanity, she reaches out to touch her friends, to borrow their normalcy until she can find her own. She pushes a small button. The light comes on; a message flares: Welcome to the Garden Forum. Would you like to chat?
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