If you were still here.I would remind you of the hot, heavy and humid June day when you were finally born-fighting the forceps that yanked you, almost against your will from the womb.You loved these sweltering days-you were born to thrive above 90 degrees, I believe. You were a heat up the grill and ice down the beer kind of guy; call everyone up and go camping at the lake kind of man. My son. My first born with almost a twin-like hold on me…Oh, I miss you. Yes, I know you have been gone already fifteen years. Yes, I have moved on-it’s just I drag your smiling spirit along for the ride. There are so many things, I would like to sit on the deck and discuss with you. The world as it is now, which is nothing like the world you left behind. Politics-I imaging we might bump heads on that one; the concept of Face Book and Instagram. I checked the freezer for Elgin sausage and fat chicken legs; I will barbecue inside because I never liked the weather this time of year. I did hear it might rain, too. I might make a chocolate cake and you would eat it all and then rub your full stomach and SMILE. I guess that is what I miss the most, my son, your smile; how the smile started in your eyes before making its way down to your mouth. That is how I remember you, how I always see you in my mind’s eye. I hope where you are there is a lake with a great place to swim, and cook for your friends and family; where the weather is to your liking and there’s a smooth spot to pitch your tent. Happy birthday, Steve.
Saturday, I chose to turn off the alarm and sleep as long as dreams would keep me.
I surrendered into the daylight right after it arrived. Instead of rising at 5:00 I snoozed
and sank back into my jumbled, confusing mind trips until six. I loved the weekend days so
there was little chance of sleeping longer. I heard the first cry of the white wing dove, cooing to the dawn and her tribe. This was a signal to me that I should start my day.
The day dawned with a grey and overcast sky. Rain never dampens the spirits of people who have been living in drought for years; living in drought and determined to garden.
Thin nightgown clad and ever-present summer foot wear- my favorite leather sandals, I slipped from the house into the garden…past the lime trees and budding datura plants, past the first bunch of this winter’s onion crop, resting in the remains of the greenhouse, now being disassembled to free up additional space for plants on the small postage stamp concrete patio. The scent of roses beckons.
The fragrance of the remains of the chinaberry tree we aided in executing this past winter…now burst into what may be its last gasp of survival; this smell competes with the roses at the end of the house for olfactory enticement. I inhale the smells of Spring.
I check the corn for new growth, tomatoes for baby fruit and pluck early sweet peas from their trellis…popping one into my mouth and savoring its freshness.
One the way back into the house, I snip several especially pretty roses for Romeo. I smile.
Back inside, I realized I have been outside almost an hour watching the play of birds and admiring our simple backyard garden. I put on a pot of special, dark-roast coffee, knowing the smell would awaken my sleeping Prince.
Weekends are delightful, even when ordinary.