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 Often, as a child, I would visit my grandparents; and each time I visited, I would go down to the creek behind the house, down a little hill where, depending on the season, violets grew wild among the lush foliage, and I would pick a bunch for my grandma, counting on the smile it would put on her face.On a summer night, with the sound of crickets, cicadas, and tree toads resonating all around, I would venture to the creek, wide-eyed in the blackness of night, unless the moon was out to light my way.And then, in fall, I would wake in the morning, much earlier than if I’d been home, and savor the brisk morning air, admiring the way the fallen leaves were coated with glistening frost, and the way the sun’s rays cut through the auburn trees.The creek never froze in winter, since the water moved too fast, and there was nothing more breathtaking then the many snow-covered branches and brilliant, thick, white blanket surrounding the clear running water.Feeling bold, I would sometimes step onto the log, which was suspended like a bridge, across the creek, challenging myself not to fall into the icy, shallow stream, and always winning.Then, the faithful arrival of spring brought the bloom of each budding tree branch, again shading the creek, leaving tiny scattered openings for the water to capture bits of sunlight, reflecting up toward a colorful backdrop.Now, the seasons have changed many times over and I’ve come back one more time to say good-bye. Grandpa has been gone since last summer, and I find it peculiar that Grandma should follow so soon.I approach the largest patch of violets and crouch down to pick one last bunch. One I will keep, pressed in a favorite book – a gift from Grandma. The rest I’ll take with me to place on her grave.Before I go, I see the log, tempting me to walk it one more time. As I step onto it with the same sure-footedness I had as a child, the once sturdy log creaks under my adult weight, yet still has enough strength to support me as I carefully sit, legs dangling over one side.I look at the purple bouquet in my hand and remember my grandmother’s warm smile that always showed a genuine appreciation of my unadorned gift. And in the comforting warmth of an early summer breeze, I weep. |
1997 L.M.D.