This is a story that came to me one day, several years ago. Its about me and my son, Jason. ANTICIPATION The old woman is bundled up against the day’s chill. Absently, she rocks the ancient wicker back and forth as she reads her book. Every so often she stops and tucks the blanket in a little tighter here or there, trying to stay ahead of the breeze that always seems to find its way around the edges of the soft wool. She loves the fall, when the air goes crisp and nippy. She loves sitting on her porch, watching the sand and the water dance their dance. And she especially loves that all the tourists are back in their homes and the beach is hers again. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to walk through the sand to the water’s edge; a long time since her toes have been caressed – tickled, really – by the ocean’s fingers. But she remembers. Oh, yes, she remembers. She has all of her memories and for that she is grateful. She’s watched as some of her friends lost their memories over the years. And she’s seen how it broke their hearts when they realized what was happening and what was to come. But her memories have stayed with her. And, oh, what memories they are! Some bring smiles of happiness, others bring sobs of sorrow. But they are hers. And they speak of her life. Then, as often happens when her memories come alive, her book falls to her lap, her eyes become soft and she sees a different time and place. The waves breaking on the shore fade into the background until she no longer hears their music. And she is lost in her memories. Sometimes her memories take her to the men she has loved. What a flirt she had been! The dancing, the parties, the men. Stolen kisses, illicit affairs. What a time she had had. But she had also been blessed to have loved and been loved by a few good men: a man who gave her a son, her greatest joy; another who had been the love of her life; another who had provided security when she needed it most; and another who had seemed to know her very soul. These were the men she had chosen and who had chosen her. And then there were the men who had been chosen for her: her father, her brother, her son. How alike these three were! Different, of course, for each was his own man, but their cores were the same. Her father and her brother couldnt have been more different – or more alike. Both with a fierce sense of family and honor; both artists in their own right. And her son, well, she never got the chance to see his full potential. But she saw enough. Enough to know what a fine man he would have been. How like her father and her brother he was. Memories of her son could make her laugh out loud. And memories of her son could crumple her to the ground and render her helpless. Great love is like that. At first she didnt know how she would survive without her son. There seemed to be no point. But time went by and she came to realize that whether she liked it or not, he was gone. And she was not. And she realized that as much as she wanted to dig a deep, dark hole and crawl inside, she could not. She had been given this life and she would honor her son by doing the best she could with it. So she learned to live again. She learned to laugh again. She even learned to love again. But always, always, in the back of her mind, she was waiting. Waiting until she could look into those clear blue eyes again; waiting until she could hear that laugh, that voice again; waiting until she could be enfolded in those arms again. For she knew that time would come. Knew it with all of her heart, all of her soul, all that she was and all that she had. So she made a new life. And she waited. There were others, of course, who had gone on before. Others who had given her the memories that sustained her now. And she looked forward to those reunions, too. So many of her friends and family were gone - she missed them, missed sharing the memories together. Over the years she had made other friends, new friends. But they had not known her when she was younger and more vibrant. They wouldn’t believe she’d ever been such a flirt! They knew her as a wise old woman with advice and laughter to share; a quick wit who could see humor in almost anything. But it wasnt the same as sharing time and memories with her old friends. Or her family. Or the men she had loved. Or her son. And then, a bit startled to find herself there, the old woman slowly comes back; back to her porch and back to the beach. Her soft gaze focuses once more on the sand and the water, on that timeless dance. And with a contented sigh, she picks up her book and starts to read. After a while, the book gently falls to her lap; her eyes become soft; and again the memories come. But this time, her eyes do not gaze softly at the beach, at the timeless dance. This time, when the memories come, her eyes flutter softly and close. And when she opens them, she finds that she isn’t all bundled up and tucked into her wicker rocker on her porch. She looks around, not quite knowing where she is, yet feeling something vaguely familiar about the place. Up in the distance a movement catches her eye and she peers ahead, straining to see what it is. After a time she realizes it is a man walking toward her. As he gets closer she realizes, by his step, that he is a young man. And he is holding his arms wide. “Oh!” she exclaims, as they both start to laugh. “Ive been waiting for this.”
Posted on: Sun, 12 Oct 2014 03:45:56 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015