My fingers massage the velvety texture as I meander into the kitchen. Instinctively, I pull back the curtains, grab my trusty wooden spoon, and prop open the window. I juice the lemons into the pitcher. An occasional seed falls into the mix, requiring retrieval every few twists.
The process is calming. Becoming immersed in something routine distracts my analytic mind. In these moments, I find it easier to contemplate life on a different level. Things get tossed into our path without permission. Fragmented pieces of cork in a glass of wine. Fruit seeds in lemonade. A mother who broke me, in every conceivable definition of the word. Some experiences are simpler to push aside and ignore than others. It doesn’t mean they can’t all be stowed away in the past where they belong.
But there are some things we desperately wish to bring back into the present. Life is cruel that way, choosing what we’re allowed to keep and forced to let go.
I crush the violet herb, rub it between my fingertips, and sprinkle it in the pitcher. Remnants of the essential oils drift through the air with a soothing influence. The sugar and water go in next. I inhale with deliberate intentions and embrace the emotional cleansing process. The citrusy lemon, calming lavender, and intoxicating jasmine permeate my pores. It’s akin to a luxurious spa treatment for my delicate heart.
The wriggling stream from the faucet interrupts my blissful moment. It mixes with thoughts of the white flower, so close I can reach out and touch it. An unpleasant thought stirs inside. I open this window each time I enter the room to greet the fragrant trellis outside like an old friend. Now that trusty floral companion hinders me from completing the plumbing repair. It looks as though I’ll be able to test my theory again. Will transplanting and trimming back something have the effect I hope for?
Placing the pitcher in the refrigerator to chill, I ease through the front door. I pull my rocking chair to the far end of the porch. It’s a small section that wraps around the side. I don’t sit here often since it overlooks that field of overgrown weeds. I study the landscape with intensity. Different sizes and shapes mix. It creates something disorganized and . . .
The early-afternoon sunlight dances alongside a tiny chickadee. Mother Nature crafts a small shadowy refuge for him. He alights on the long stem of a weed swaying in the breeze. It’s chaotic . . . and beautiful.
I blink once, then twice. Is this real? The visual sensation before my eyes explodes with texture and color. It reaches out and wraps its arms around me in a comforting embrace. Catmint and hollyhocks fill the flowing vision of an English countryside. Sprigs of sage, dill, and thyme line the winding cobblestone pathways. There’s an arbor with climbing roses, framed by foxglove and phlox on either side. It’s the entrance to a haven of hope. I allow my lingering gaze to drift back toward the centerpiece of it all. A jasmine plant blooms freely and wildly in this surreal garden of love.
I must act now, lest this idyllic image flee my ephemeral memory. Rising from my seat with a sense of purpose, I keep my eyes locked on that expanse of land. My fingers grope for the door handle. When they find it, I dash into the kitchen. I look for anything to capture this vision. I grab the paper bag that once held my fruit, noting that the crease marks from Hank’s fierce grip are still present. But they seem to fall in all the right places, where each plant should go. Were these plans predestined, waiting for this moment to bestow themselves upon me? Thoughts of a childhood visit to the library and Ms. Pickett’s words echo in my mind: The universe provides what you need most, but only when you’re ready to receive it.
THE SHOVEL BLADE WAS dull and a few tines were missing on the rake, but persistence proved successful. After tilling a small part of the land, I transplanted the jasmine to its new home. I’m dirt-laden on the outside but somehow cleaner on the inside. Acting upon this impromptu visual sensation has caused something to shift at my core. It’s tipped my life in a direction and to an extreme I’ve never experienced before.
My elevated mood weakens when I return to the kitchen sink. Scrubbing my hands to remove the layers of fertile soil, I look out the window, forlorn. The space before me is devoid of that immediate presence and intoxicating scent. Only a spirited breeze will carry that distant memory to me now. My thoughts drift upstairs to my bedroom.
Dillon’s book remains buried at the bottom of my bureau drawer. I never once thought about him while embarking upon my fulfillment of this vision. Is my remembrance of him already beginning to slip away? It consumes me with guilt and worry. My all-too-human heart tugs at me for attention. Will I be nothing but a fading memory to someone? To anyone?
I pour a glass of lemonade and catch sight of the crumpled paper bag. I’m not an artist, nowhere close to it. But there is inspiration wrapped up in those scribbles of that ethereal dream. It’s like they came from something inside and outside me at the same time. As if some creative genius intervened to beget a work of art I never would have been able to construct on my own. I was the channel for some form of beautiful and divine intervention.
The peaches and plumbing supplies still rest on the counter. That void between need and want resurfaces. Maybe there is something between them. Or perhaps it’s a mix of the two. Those peaches. The image of Hank and Lydia walking together hand-in-hand. The conversations I’ve shared with both of them. These thoughts illuminate a path like fleeting firefly flashes on a summer evening. They lead me to discover a place in the shadows I didn’t know was there. We each have a need to be wanted and a want to be needed.
I TAKE A SEAT ON THE same rocking chair, staring across at the jasmine plant. It waves back at me in the freshening breeze. A faint trace of its fragrant aroma reminds me it’s not that far away. I place my glass of lemonade on the side table and exchange it for the plumbing coupler I brought outside with me. I’m trying my best to understand all the details of this unfamiliar task before I begin it. I’ve undertaken nothing this ambitious before. But my self-confidence has rebounded some. Will it be enough?
I trace my finger over the circular opening of the coupler. It’s a form of yogic meditation for me. Random words filter through my consciousness. Infinite. Whole. Timeless.
Gazing back across the yard, I smile. I’ve been greeted and helped by a piece of my divine existence to conjure up this joint floral creation. Fixated on it, I notice in my peripheral vision something stirring to my left. Allowing my eyes to relax and accept a wider view, I see a sketchbook. It’s the same color as the phlox in my future garden. A hand moves across its pages with crisp strokes of delicate artistry.
I watch Jack work in silence, willingly captive to each of his movements. All his focus is on the front porch. But a sideways glance shifts his gaze every few moments. To the solitary jasmine plant nestled among the overgrown weeds surrounding it. Does it distract him, or is he drawn toward it?
He doesn’t notice me. I stay as still as possible so as not to disrupt his concentration. At first I’m hesitant to engage emotionally, but an insatiable sense of curiosity tempts me. Even from this distance, he communicates so much through his eyes. I long to see how he conveys his thoughts and vision through charcoal and lead onto a piece of paper.
Another chickadee lands on the jasmine. Could it be the same one from earlier? Jack’s attention is instinctively pulled toward it. His pencil movements stop midstroke. I watch him watching it before I shift my gaze to the small bird. We share the same delightful vision for a moment. Does he see the same things I do? Are the colors and textures as vivid for him as they are for me?
An alarm blares in the way of a ringing phone from inside the house. It pierces the tranquil melody of our afternoon song. The chickadee flies, crossing the direct path between Jack and me. We each follow its flight until our eyes find each other. They lock for what seems like forever. Being seen doesn’t bother me, although I suppose it should. I only hope to escape this dizzying whirlwind of spiritual adrenaline. My mind begs me to look away, but I can’t.
It’s Jack who does so first. He gathers his supplies and flees down the street in a rush. I want to chase after him. I need to stay put. Caught in that void between those two words again, I drift through an emotional wormhole.
I stare into my lap. My finger traces circles around the opening of the copper pipe. I gaze back toward the garden and watch it blossom in my mind’s eye again. The vivid color of that phlox matches the cover of Jack’s sketchbook. Complementary but disjoint thoughts filter through my mind. One from the present and another from the past.
The coupler in my hands helps facilitate a transition. Between two things that don’t naturally fit together. And the name of that vibrant pink flower derives from the Latin word meaning “flame.” Something about this fire burning inside me certainly doesn’t fit, but I can’t make any sense of it.
9
I stare at the copper circle in my hands, continuing to trace my finger around the edge. The shape is both mesmerizing and maddening. No matter where I find myself along its path, everything looks the same. Is this nothing but a hallucination? I’ve had vivid dreams before, but none so alive as this one. If this experience was only a product of my overactive imagination, does that make it any less real?
I sit there for ten minutes, or hours. I’m not sure which it is. A weird sense of déjà vu draws me back into the present. I glance to the left, but a vacant space on that empty sidewalk taunts me. There’s no evidence of anyone having sat there. And no proof that a single penetrating gaze has turned my world upside down.
Upon recognizing the familiar ringing from inside, I jump from my seat and fly into the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Claire? I wasn’t expecting to reach you. I figured I’d leave another message.” So I didn’t imagine it all.
“Hi, Russell. I was outside, doing . . .” How do I explain what just happened? It might be impossible. “How long ago did you call?”
“Five minutes, ten at the most.” It felt so much longer. Time distorts certain moments. It stretches and morphs into something infinite. Like a circle. “You’re in the foothills, right? Not at some insanely high altitude?”
“What? Why?”
“You seem . . . quiet. And different. Not in a bad way. It’s just, you sound both anxious and calm. I know, it doesn’t make any sense.” We can agree on that final part. Whatever happened over the past couple minutes runs deeper than the surface. “Are you still doing okay?”
I’m not sure how to respond since I don’t have a clue what’s happening around me. “I didn’t sleep well last night . . . and I might have had a bit too much coffee this morning.” That’s what it feels like. I suppose it’s not a complete lie. I was restless lying in bed. And based upon my present thoughts, I suspect that will be the case this evening too.
“So, you can ignore the message I left earlier. I called to let you know we’ll be arriving sometime tomorrow afternoon.” I hear my niece pleading for a chance to speak in the background. “And Lizzie would like for you to make some of that famous lavender lemonade for her. Do you believe she still remembers drinking that in her sippy cup as a toddler when you visited the house?” That was such a long time ago. Things were so different. Russell was happily married. I was gainfully employed. The world was spinning on its axis predictably. Without my ever noticing it, subtle and imperceptible shifts have given rise to a new reality.
“I will be sure to have some waiting for her.” With my supply of lemons waning, I’ll save what’s left in the refrigerator for Lizzie.
“Thanks again, Claire Bear. I owe you.”
“It’s no problem. I’m happy to help.” I could use some help too, but I leave that silent plea in a private place.
