One Spring
August 27, 2008chrissaire No Comments »She was my Gardenia…my tiny flower whose beauty is reflected especially from the pureness of her heart. In her most solitary days, she brought tranquility to the limited hours that I spent with her.
I met her in a time when the sun’s warmth was just too perfect to be allowed to embrace one’s whole being… at a time when squirrels’ agility were at its peak to climb up and down the trees… when flowers bloomed so magnificently, either dancing with the breeze or at times just looking up for another gulp of rain from the sky. Yes, I met her at the start of Spring.
Fragile, sitted almost curled to her wheeled-chair- my heart was instantly drawn to this petite lady. She had the shiny gray hair reflecting the milestone of her age. Most of the time she had her eyes closed, but she would always maintain a constant smile on her face- giving me a hint that she is paying attention to me. In between the silence of her company, I would be mused by her natural expression like “oh boy.”
Our friendship was an instant click. Her natural sense of humor compliments with my inherent comtemplative view on life. She was the ninety-five year old lady who has gone past the prime of her life. Someone who at some point had felt the world just passed her by and that God had just forgotten her. I was the twenty-nine year old lass who has yet to see what life has to offer. A rookie in the race for endeavor here in the United States and perhaps one who sometimes became impatient of what the future lies.
We had tackled our differences in all our garden walks before and after lunch. We found each other like a puzzle that made us complete. I for one had seen the world through her. And I saw it in a rather beautiful apparition.
Here she was, twenty-five years without a husband….seen the death of her friends and relatives…..and buried two of her children. The earth had already captured ennumerable sunrises and sunsets- all these she had witnessed. Changes happen minute after minute. And all these were unfolded before her very eyes. In her ninety-five years, everything was like a fleeting bubble. People like time were like water that she tried to grasp in her palm. In our talks, she longed to be just like that water- to be flown in the current to mortality.
Then came one Saturday, in her dim room she felt the comfort that she was not forgotten. Her throat was finally satisfied with the thirst-quenching drop of her last wish. It was her time. In her fading breath, there she was laying on her bed one warm April afternoon…when the flowers were still fresh and the squirrels were still playing. God took her before the spring ended.
Join the discussion