When I was a little kid, an elderly woman that was loved by Mom, but barely known by me, passed away. And I remember Mom’s sadness as she was standing there at the kitchen stove, lost in her thoughts, going through the motions of stirring a pot.
I remember hugging Mom’s legs and getting a gentle pat on my shoulder, and then going quietly out the back door, to the backyard, to give Mom her time alone.
I walked along the side of the backyard, along the flower garden that bordered the picket fence, looking at the the bright green leaves from the flowers that had bloomed earlier in the spring. I walked further up the garden, to where the Bleeding Heart bush was in full bloom. I stood there, watching the flowers for several minutes, before reaching out and letting the flowers brush gently across my palm.
I remember going over by the empty clothes line and lying down in the cool morning grass, and staring up into the bright blue sky. I watched as billowing, snow white clouds drifted slowly above and I remember wondering if I would see the elderly woman looking back down on us.
And as I lay there, looking for a face that I never saw, I remember wondering where it was that the sky ends, and heaven begins.
4 comments:
OK. Here's a comment for all you people that have just read this beautiful piece of writing and thought "Wow!".
Blog writing is a lonely occupation. Creating beauty with words, music or art is rewarding in itself, but beauty remains in the bailiwick of the beholder.
No blogger is an island. We all need a reason to persevere in all things in life. Not for nothing is there an invitation at the end of each blog to post a comment. How much time and effort does it take to write "this is great" (or "this is crap", if that's how you feel) in the comments space?
Just bloody-well do it!
There aren't very many people that come by here, Ben. And by "very many", I mean there's you... and maybe once every couple of weeks, one of my kids. But that's ok. That's more than good enough for me!
But the map has got more freckles on it than a red-headed farm boy. We are being watched!
We probably are (at least, in this country), but I think those are just lost travelers, stumbling into the wrong hotel room in the middle of the night.
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